


The Song Nobody Knows

by Laur



Series: The Song Nobody Knows [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captivity, Dark, Developing Relationship, F/F, F/M, Female Mycroft, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Possessive Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sirens, Some questionable medical practices, Supernatural Elements, bird sirens not mermaids, human eating, non-con is in passing and not between main pairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 78,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock could take John Watson back to his cave, he would keep him alive as long as possible. He would collect rain water and sea weed and fish to feed him, and he would keep him warm with his soft feathers. In return John Watson would answer all of Sherlock’s questions. Yes, Sherlock would keep him, his own little mystery to unravel. Eventually, though, the human would die, as they always did, and Sherlock would have to eat him, like he always did.  </p><p>This was much more interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic and its title are inspired by Margaret Atwood's "Siren Song". While I was also briefly researched some Greek mythology on Sirens, I ignored much (though not all) of it when writing.
> 
> I listened to a lot of soundscapes from mynoise.net while writing this to immerse myself in the perfect atmosphere. The tracks Distant Thunder (http://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/thunderNoiseGenerator.php) and Ethereal Choir (http://mynoise.net/NoiseMachines/infiniteChoirDroneGenerator.php) are perfect for the beginning of this fic! Enjoy!

This is the one song everyone  
would like to learn: the song  
that is irresistible:

the song that forces men  
to leap overboard in squadrons  
even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows  
because anyone who has heard it  
is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret  
and if I do, will you get me  
out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here  
squatting on this island  
looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs,  
I don't enjoy singing  
this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,  
to you, only to you.  
Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!  
Only you, only you can,  
you are unique

at last. Alas  
it is a boring song  
but it works every time.

\-- "Siren Song" by Margaret Atwood

 

Rain pounded against the sea and the rocks, a blanket of sound interrupted by rumbling cracks of thunder. A shock of lightning illuminated the hunched form of a creature, half bird and half man, wedged deep within a crevice of the island rock formation. His eyes, nearly as pale as his ghostly skin, squinted from beneath his raven fringe. The creases around his eyes deepened as salt water sprayed his taloned feet, and the creature shuffled deeper into the rock to shield his bare skin from the spitting, roiling ocean. Between his talons was a human skull, to which he muttered as his talons fidgeted like agile toes, poking into its eye sockets and leaving minute scratches against the temporal bones. 

“…too long, too long. An eternity of the same, singing the same, over and over the same, but, oh, you don’t remember it do you? No, no, of course not, that would be too much to hope for,” he rumbled, low tones nearly drowned out by the storm’s torrent and audible only for one who could no longer listen. “Your dull little brain, must be so relaxing. I sang it for you once, ages ago. I could sing it again, but it never changes, of course, never changes.” He buried his fingers into his hair and tugged painfully, but didn’t flinch. In his talons, the jaw of the skull creaked as his vice grip tightened spasmodically. “How I envy you, your sieve-like mind, as mine races out of control, beats against its confines, withers at stagnation. Dull, dull, _dull!_ Nothing, there’s nothing –!” 

The rant suddenly cut off as the creature cocked his head, bird-like, in response to some noise. A shift in the rain, perhaps, or a wave out of pattern, the sea’s motion thrown off by an obstacle. 

A ship.

With a flurry of motion the creature burst from his little cave, ruffled feathers shivering and unruly curls sagging under the deluge. His pale skin glistened with rain, droplets running over the planes of his chest, the hollow of his stomach, the crests of his hip bones. He gripped the edge of the rock ledge with his talons to lean out over the surging sea, keeping his wings and arms folded close to his body to avoid being pushed over by the wind.

Oh, yes, there! White sails billowing in the wind, a ship rocking with the violence of its watery cradle. Excitement burst through the creature and he trembled once with nervous energy before regaining his composure. The first ship in nearly two fortnights and at last something to do! Something interesting to interrupt the unending ocean and sky and pathetic stretch of stranded rock. 

“Sherlock!” 

The creature’s head whipped towards the call of his name. On the ledge of a neighbouring rock formation about ten wingspans away, one of his sisters was baring her sharp teeth at him in a wild grin, her ink black feathered tresses whipping around her face. 

“Irene,” Sherlock intoned.

She licked her lips and lowered her eyelids lecherously. Inhaling deeply, she slowly spread her wings behind her, putting her coal-black, red-tipped feathers on full display and baring her body to the elements. “They smell lovely do they not?”

Just like that, Sherlock’s excitement soured slightly. 

“Must you be so dull?” Sherlock demanded, just loud enough for Irene’s sensitive ears. He received a trilled laugh in response.

Their auburn-maned sister crept out of the rocks to stand next to Irene. Her russet wings were perfectly preened and orderly, and she wrapped them around the soft curves of her body. Her beak-like nose wrinkled slightly as she squinted into the rain. 

“How tedious, another British vessel,” she said with distaste. “Some fresh meat will be nice though, won’t it, Sherlock? You really are much too thin.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed. “It’s cruel enough that one of us confuses the whales, don’t you think?”

Mycroft sent him a tight frown, her expression less indicative of affront and more of disappointment at the unimaginative insult.

“Oh, the poor man,” Irene cooed. “Why don’t we fetch you another dashing blond?” 

“Fortunately he will not be French this time,” Mycroft added dryly. “We all remember what happened with the last one.”

Sherlock bit back a snarl and managed to keep his expression cold and unaffected. His talons twitched with involuntary muscle memory, the rock beneath them not as smooth as the familiar human skull they sought. Even with the distance between them, Sherlock could see Mycroft’s eyes dart down to the movement, her hawk vision missing nothing. 

Irene gave another high, mocking laugh, then morphed the sound into a soprano hum. She turned her head towards the distant ship and opened her mouth to increase her volume, her voice taking on an ethereal quality as she began her Song.

“Really, you must not let yourself become so attached. Caring is not an advantage, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured, then turned to join her sister. She too began to sing, letting her clear voice rise and fall to combine with Irene’s higher tone, creating beautiful harmonies and compelling dissonances. Their Songs were wordless, but meaning was woven through every phrase. 

Irene sang of heady lust and desire, writhing bodies and mindless ecstasy. _I know what you like_ , she crooned. _Come to me and every sinful, secret hunger will be satiated._ With her angelic tone she created images of late nights and wild passions. Her body swayed with the wind, her eyelids fluttered and her breast flushed despite the cold rain, her body as enthralling as her voice.

Mycroft sang of love and belonging, perfect unions and domestic bliss. _I’m your other half_ , she called. _Be with me and you will never know sadness, nor loneliness_. With her soothing tone she wove a tapestry of eternal happiness and family. Her arms reached, her eyes warmed and her cheeks blushed, and she became the loving, doting wife of every man’s dreams. 

Infused with the supernatural power of their ancestry, the sisters’ Songs effortlessly projected through the wind and the waves and the rain. Their Songs were a lure impossible for mortal men to resist, and as Sherlock watched, the distant ship began to turn towards the trio’s isolated rocks.

Like his sisters, Sherlock too was a Siren, and as humans were unable to resist a Siren’s Song, no more could a Siren resist singing it. The urge, the instinct, caused his throat to itch and his teeth to ache. Dreading the inevitability of it all, Sherlock parted his lips, breathed deeply, and joined his Song to Irene’s and Mycroft’s. 

Unlike his sisters, with their feminine curves and soft features, Sherlock could not so easily entice as many men with his body. He was made of striking contrasts, with sharp cheekbones and full lips, raven hair and alabaster skin. His figure contained lean, wiry strength which was intimidating in combination with his considerable height. Despite his sleek wings and delicate feathers, he was undeniably male. While this was not an altogether large or constant obstacle when attracting human men, Sherlock’s Song did not entice sailors with promises of love and lust. Also unlike his sisters’ Songs, his was not an act. 

Sherlock sang for help.

Sherlock sang of loneliness and boredom, maddening tedium and unending misery. _I hate it here_ , he moaned without words. _Come closer and I’ll tell you my secret: my despair is as undeniable as my beauty and you, only you, can save me_. With his rumbling baritone he pierced mortal ears with sadness. His eyes pleaded, his hands trembled and though Sherlock never begged, in his Song he begged for a saviour.

The trio’s voices intertwined like thin thread, stronger together than separate. Their Songs linked tightly, the knots of their fishing net, and the more they sang the faster they reeled in their prey. The ship was sailing straight towards them now, its heading the fatal rocks in the middle of the ocean. 

In her excitement, Irene sang louder and her siblings followed. Sherlock basked in the power flowing through him, his body invigorated, his vocal chords vibrating and his blood humming. He’d been singing his unchanging Song for centuries, and though it bored him, this – the familiar power and life that filled him when he succumbed to his most raw instincts – was the only thing that kept him from throwing himself into the consuming sea. Sherlock craved the excitement, the violence, the beauty of the shipwreck. The product of human ingenuity and curiosity rent to splinters and rope and cloth. When the men were drowning, clawing themselves from the waterlogged sails and the floating planks of wood, desperate to reach the very creatures that were killing them, the power of it was equal parts sickening and intoxicating. 

Sometimes, if they had the patience or the interest, the siblings would not even kill the sailors right away.

Sometimes, Irene would pluck a man out of the water, the weakest or the strongest, palest or the darkest depending on her mood, and drag him off to have her way with him. She’d let him stroke her inky feathers, red-tipped as though dipped in blood, and let him press his lips to her smooth skin, and let him scent and invade the most private parts of her body. She’d fulfill the promises of her Song and then, while whispering sinful encouragements into his ear, she’d sink her sharp teeth into his neck and tear. With blood and flesh in her mouth and screams in her ears, she’d moan. 

Sometimes, more out of laziness than anything else, Mycroft would simply watch as men attempted to climb the steep cliff-side rather than fetch them herself. She’d play the blushing maiden while pointing out that this sailor was clearly a drunk while that one obviously had a wife at home. She’d manipulate them until they’d sworn body, heart and soul to her, each one desperate to please her and win her love. When at last one of them reached her rocky perch, she’d push him onto his back with her relieved embrace and then tear open his chest with her talons. The heart was her favourite part after all.

Often, as often as possible in fact, before the ship was sunk, Sherlock would jump from the rocks and soar above the sailors’ heads. He’d identify the most knowledgeable man on-board, whether he be a scientist, a cartographer, a writer, a physician or an engineer, and snatch him away. He’d bring the sailor to his cave where he’d attempt to satiate his ravenous hunger for knowledge. As idiotic as Sherlock found individual humans, they proved incredibly industrious when working together. 

What is this and how does it work, Sherlock would ask. A pocket watch, to keep accurate time -- _useful_. A compass, using the earth’s natural magnetism -- _brilliant_. A stethoscope, to hear inside the body -- _intriguing_. (These things he’d take from the human to add to his growing collection, trinkets hoarded in a corner of his cave, there for him to return to when his mind railed against the tedium.) He would ask about the world outside of his little cave, about advancements in the sciences and medicine. What new technology had been developed? What was steam power? And machine tools? There was a _Spinning Jenny_ , and the _Iron Bridge_ , and even _Horsepower_. There was English and French and Italian. German and Portuguese and Polish. Countless languages Sherlock had encountered and mastered. 

Yet, the more Sherlock’s curiosity increased, the more the human’s vitality drained. Humans, it seemed, were not well suited to living in caves in the middle of the ocean. Victor Travers, a brilliant writer, had lasted the longest, but he, too, had perished. Hoping to please his Siren, Victor had answered Sherlock’s desperate questions even on his fourth and final day, as his lips had cracked and bled, as his mouth had become too dry to swallow and as his warm brown eyes had rolled with disorientation. 

“ _Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas? Que puis-je faire?_ ” Sherlock had demanded.

Victor had coughed out a sad laugh. “ _Les humaines ont besoin d’eau douce et de la nourriture pour survivre, mon cher,_ ” the sailor had croaked, smiling fondly at the Siren. *

That night, after Victor’s chest had stopped moving and his emaciated body had grown cold, Sherlock ate him so the seafowl wouldn’t peck at him. There had only been enough room in his cave to save part of the skeleton (the most important part). 

Sherlock glanced at the various human bones strewn amongst the rocks at the base of their islands, the ones that hadn’t been washed away by the sea. There would be more joining the piles before sundown. Sooner rather than later, Sherlock suspected, going by the vicious snarl on Irene’s face. Even Mycroft, who was cool when Irene scorched and sizzled, had a raw hunger in her eyes. The storm was intensifying their savagery after four long weeks with only gulls and fish for sustenance, the electricity in the air sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine. There would be no dawdling or playing this time, only killing and consuming, not necessarily in that order. 

The ship was close enough now that Sherlock, with his keen eyes, could see the faces of the crew, smell the sweat and blood and heat of them mingled with the rain and salt. His muscles tensed and coiled involuntarily and his voice roughened, giving his Song a sensual edge to it. Soon, too soon, this would be over and life on the little rock formation would return to the unending monotony of the sea. His instincts, prevailing at the moment, would again fizzle out and leave him with nothing but bones at his feet, blood in his mouth and screaming in his head. For now, he would enjoy the excitement.

The ship was now close enough for Sherlock to see the name _HMS Defiance_ on the hull. The ship was in nearly mint condition, the paint recently applied. 

Suddenly, there was movement on the deck, sailors scurrying and climbing, and then the sails were lowering.

Irene’s soaring soprano cut off abruptly, stripping a layer from their trio. “ _What?_ ” she gasped.

Sherlock watched in amazement as an anchor was thrown overboard. Quickly, his eyes darted between the sailors, trying to see what he had missed. One man, broad-shouldered, over six feet and sporting a crooked nose, stood at the fo'c'sle deck, peering through a monocular trained at the Sirens’ rocks. There, at the base of the ship’s main mast, a man was tied up and struggling against his restraints. The tall man at the front of the ship, obviously the captain, turned his head to signal something over his shoulder and there, in his ear, there was something…

Sherlock’s Song cut off with a startled laugh. Oh, this was interesting. Clever, too, very clever. Oh, yes, yes. At last something to _do!_

“They cannot hear us,” Mycroft breathed, dropping out of her impromptu solo.

“Oh, no, no, look closer, sister,” Sherlock exclaimed gleefully. “Oh, it’s brilliant.” 

The moment Mycroft had stopped singing, the man tied to the base of the mast had stopped struggling. Now, he sat, gazing around at the activity around him, appearing a little confused as to what was happening. The rest of the crew noticed this change of behaviour and continued their preparations with double the haste. They were beginning to lower dinghies over the sides of the ship. 

“What do they have in their ears?” Irene asked, voice thin with anxiety.

“Wax, clearly, can you not observe?” Sherlock snapped back, too joyful to put much bite in it. 

The dinghies were halfway to the water. Next the sailors would lower ladders and then they would be climbing into the flimsy boats. They would row their slow way towards the cliffs, no doubt bringing their little swords and guns with hopes of destroying the devil Sirens of the rocks. There the humans would sit, bobbing with the waves, just begging to be plucked into the sky. It would be too easy.

Sherlock spread his midnight black wings, reaching over three meters from tip to tip. The rain was lightening a bit, the remaining drizzle repelled by the natural oils in his feathers, and the Siren stretched his muscles luxuriously.

The horrified looks on the humans’ faces was very satisfying. 

“Sherlock, stop,” Mycroft ordered. “You will ruin our advantage. Clearly they wish us harm and if we just wait until they are vulnerable in the water we can attack from --” 

Sherlock cut her off with an aggrieved sigh. “Yes, obviously. But where is the fun in that?” He aimed a brief grin his sisters’ way, Irene looking shaky on her talons and Mycroft appearing stern as always, before bending his knees and launching himself into the air. He beat his wings hard, underused muscles singing with energy and exertion. Each push of his wings propelled him higher into the sky and closer to the ship. He ignored Irene shouting his name. 

Sherlock pushed himself up, up, up, high enough to see the world laid out beneath him, all of it his for the taking. On the ship the humans were rushing about, signing to each other with their hands, grabbing their swords, and lowering dinghies. So futile. This was Sherlock’s territory. The Siren made a broad circle in the air, picking out which human to take first. 

His eyes zeroed in on where a man was untying the captive at the base of the mast. The man’s head was tilted down, his hair soaked a dark blond from the rain. Sherlock observed the deft way the man’s hands loosened the knots, the competent way he checked the abrasions on the sailor’s arms, the careful way he inserted pieces of wax into the sailor’s ears. 

_Mmm, yes, perfect_ , Sherlock thought, and then he tucked his wings and dived.

Wind howled past his ears and raindrops splattered across his face. Behind him, he could hear his sisters’ wings beating the air as they came to join him. Faster and faster he shot down, closer, closer, his target looking up in surprise as Sherlock’s shadow passed over him. Deep blue eyes set in a tanned and weathered face looked straight at the Siren and Sherlock could see the man’s pupils dilating and Sherlock was opening his wings and extending his talons and – 

Too late he noticed the thin, nearly invisible wire-like threads seemingly floating in the air. Like a spider’s web they stretched from main mast to foremast, from crow’s nest to the mizzenmast and half a dozen others, surrounding and shielding the ship from above. As Sherlock spread his wings, one thread caught the tip of his right wing, another slicing its way up his left thigh. The shocking pain of it caused him to jerk hard to the right, just avoiding the thread that would have entirely severed his left wing. Unable to stop his momentum, he tucked his wings and arms close to his body and plummeted to the deck. His right shoulder and upper back collided hard enough that his lungs seized and he heard several bones in his wing snap. For what felt like an eternity he could do nothing but writhe, unable to draw air and gritting his teeth hard enough to crush bone. Had he been human, he suspected he would not have survived the impact. 

As he lay there in a heap, a net was thrown over him. He heard Irene give a piercing screech and then terrified shouting from the sailors. Sherlock opened his eyes to see his dark-feathered sister sink her talons deep into a man’s scalp before lifting him and throwing him overboard. Mycroft circled above the ship for a moment before finding a way through the razor sharp strands. She dove into the fray with her sister, neatly scoring at one man's eyes with her talons and grabbing his sword, then using the human weapon to efficiently slice and impale. Irene managed to throw over another sailor and injure two more, nearly tearing the arm off one and slicing through the back of another, before the humans managed to entangle her wings in weighted ropes, pulling her to the deck with a resounding thud. Mycroft hesitated, seeing a way out as the men converged on Irene, but not wanting to leave her siblings.

Sherlock hissed at her. _Caring is not an advantage, sister mine_ , he thought, and began cutting through the net over him with his talons. Hoping to provide enough of a distraction to let her escape, he lashed out at the men holding him down with his hands and claws and teeth, aiming for their blocked ears especially. Despite the chaos, all was oddly quiet aside from involuntary grunts and shouts. With their hearing obstructed, the humans did not speak, but rather acted with the fluidity of a well-trained army. They had planned thoroughly and Sherlock had been an idiot, letting his arrogance blind him from the danger these humans presented. 

There was a series of loud bangs and Mycroft let out an enraged shriek. The scent of gun powder filled the air and then she, too, fell to the deck and instantly curled into herself, favouring her left wing. 

Within moments the trio was restrained, their clawing and spitting and biting overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Rope bit into the scaly flesh of Sherlock’s ankles and he couldn’t hold back a pained moan as his injured wings were tied to his back. Every feather that broke made a sound like a snapping twig, putting Sherlock’s teeth on edge more than the pain did. His wrists were bound in front of him, which gave him some hope until his arms were also tied to his body, leaving his hands clasped in front of his crotch. 

Rough hands pulled his head back by the hair and he snarled viciously into human faces contorted with disgust, anger and fear. Two sets of hands seized his face and forced his jaw open and Sherlock thrashed violently, but ineffectively. Another set of hands, large and brown, entered his field of vision, the metal gleam of a knife instantly catching his attention. Fingers were grabbing at his tongue and with sudden panic Sherlock bit down hard, but the hand withdrew too quickly. More grabbing, fingers pressing cruelly into the Siren’s flesh, the face of the man with the crooked nose filling his vision, the cold, unyielding metal pressing against his bottom lip and Sherlock couldn’t stop the gasping, animal noises he was making -- 

“Stop! Stop!” someone shouted.

Suddenly the brown hands with the knife disappeared as the captain was yanked backwards. Sherlock struggled fiercely as his captors were distracted, but was instantly shoved harder into the deck. There was a brief tussle that Sherlock could hear but not see through the bulk of the humans’ clothing, then a different face was leaning over him. Deep blue eyes met the Siren’s gaze and small, dexterous hands, holding a white cloth, were reaching for the Siren’s face. Sherlock recognized the physician he had planned to snatch away. The man’s face was now blemished with a darkening bruise on his left temple. 

Hands were again forcing open Sherlock’s jaw, and he snarled and struggled. Sherlock’s physician made a hushing noise that was clearly meant to soothe, and Sherlock glared at the man with angry incredulity. The physician’s hands snaked through the holes of the net to force the white cloth into Sherlock’s mouth, then he reached behind Sherlock’s head, the sweaty, human scent of him invading Sherlock’s nostrils, to tie the cloth behind his head. Sherlock pushed at the cloth with his tongue, tasting salt in the fibre, but the cloth would not budge, firm enough to be effective but not painful. 

With the gag in place, the humans collectively relaxed. The firm hands loosened and the sailors straightened. Sherlock’s physician made a hand signal, thumb and index finger touching, above his head, and the humans began removing the wax from their ears. 

_Idiots_ , Sherlock thought. While being gagged might make his Song less potent, the humans were in no way totally safe. Sherlock considered humming to see how much influence he still had, but he did not know what state his sisters were in, nor how effective his Song would be, and decided to keep silent for the moment. (And perhaps, secretly, he was curious where all this would lead to). 

“Watson!” came a gruff shout. “You insubordinate fool!”

The crowd around Sherlock moved back a bit, leaving only two men actively holding him down and letting him observe his surroundings. The captain, who had nearly cut out Sherlock’s tongue, was towering head and shoulders over the physician. The shorter man, Watson, was not cowed, chin raised stubbornly but eyes averted respectfully over the captain’s left shoulder.

“I meant no disrespect, Captain,” he said clearly. “I acted only to stop unnecessary harm.”

From where Sherlock lay, he could make out Mycroft, similarly gagged and restrained. Blood was oozing sluggishly from the gunshot wounds in her left wing, the bullets likely still lodged in her thick feathers.

“These creatures are deadly, Doctor. More so than you can imagine. They must be silenced.”

“I agree, Captain. But not by mutilation,” Watson replied calmly. “Such an injury could easily prove fatal. Captain.” 

There was Irene, still struggling with frustration against her binds. If she was attempting to Sing, Sherlock could not hear her, and the humans were unaffected. Aside from bruises and ruffled feathers, she appeared uninjured. 

Now that he had calmed slightly, Sherlock’s body was screaming its pains at him. His left thigh stung and bled where a thread had sliced like a wire through cheese, removing a layer of skin and fat and exposing muscle tissue. The tip of his right wing burned where feathers and skin had been cut clean through to the terminal phalanx bone, which, while painful, was not fatal. Worse was the way the wing throbbed near his shoulder and back, with a pain that was sickening for its significance – broken wing bones rarely healed properly. Of the various sea birds Sherlock had experimented on, only eight percent recovered sufficiently from broken wings to allow for flying, depending on the type of break. Sherlock attempted to determine whether one of his joints was injured, but could not match his screaming nerves to a specific location. All he knew was that it _hurt_. 

“I am far too lenient with you,” the captain hissed in a lowered voice. “Were it not for Harriet –”

“John!” a high pitched voice called urgently. 

Both Watson and Sherlock looked towards the call and Sherlock was shocked to see not a young boy, but rather a woman. Other than his own mother and sisters, Sherlock had only seen three females before. Flax coloured hair fell into her face where she was crouched over a prostrate sailor, blood staining her hands and skirts as she held a cloth to his ravaged back. She looked up at Watson, and the resemblance Sherlock noted in their facial features made their family relation clear. 

“Stop arguing with my husband and get over here! You’re the surgeon, not me,” she shouted.

John Watson turned away from the captain without a backwards glance and rushed to her side, back straight, but stride slightly unsteady as he compensated for the ship’s rocking. 

With the Sirens restrained, most of the humans turned their attention to their fallen comrades. The Sirens were grabbed by two men each and were dragged across the deck. Both Sherlock and Mycroft were left breathless and mute from the pain of their injuries, but Irene struggled fiercely. Through her gag, she attempted to project her Song, but like her voice, her Song was similarly distorted. Rather than irresistible lust, her muffled humming seemed to express a mild yearning. The humans holding her stumbled briefly but were able to easily resist her Song. Realizing what she was attempting, one of the humans struck her across the face. She growled deep in her throat but subsided. 

The Sirens were manhandled through the levels of the ship and to the brig in the ship’s belly. They were locked into separate cells, like birds in cages, though their restraints were not removed. Tattered blankets were thrown over Irene and Mycroft for modesty rather than warmth. For Sherlock, the humans did not bother. Two men, armed with a sword, a pistol and a knife each, paced back and forth in front of the cells, watching the creatures warily. One guard’s ears were blocked by wax while the other’s were not. 

The wood planks of the floor were rough and damp against Sherlock’s bare skin, the dim lighting claustrophobic compared to the open sky he was used to. The scent of salt, wax and damp wood pervaded the air. When pressed against the metal bars of his cell he found them cold and unyielding. 

Irene, in the cell next to Sherlock’s, eventually tired from struggling and curled up under her blanket in the corner closest to Mycroft’s cell. She would appear to be napping save for the tiny slits of her eyelids, through which she followed the guards with her eyes. Mycroft lay panting on the ground and had managed to press the bunched up blanket to her injured wing, gradually staining the fabric a wine red. The guards’ gazes often lingered on her exposed breasts and pelvis, her skin bisected by rope. Sherlock, for his part, retreated into his mind. With variable success, he separated himself from the throbbing pain of his body, sitting utterly still with his legs in front of him, and plotted ways to escape.

First, his bindings. Even with his ankles bound and hands awkwardly positioned, Sherlock imagined he could contort enough to cut the ropes with his talons. Could he do it without the humans noticing?

One of the guards, the one with his ears blocked, had keys on his person, which jingled every time he moved. The calluses on his hands revealed his expert swordsmanship, the confidence in his gate showed his many years at sea and the sharpness of his eyes implied a keen intelligence. The other was coltish and obviously fond of drink. His nervousness was clear in his constant fidgeting with his knife, and his shoulders hunched as though perpetually expecting a blow. 

Sherlock shifted slightly, pulling his sharp talons closer to his body. Both guards’ eyes snapped to the movement. Their pacing did not falter. Impressive. Sherlock settled and they looked away.

If he could free his bindings, then he’d still have to escape the cell. If he managed that, he’d still be trapped on the ship with nowhere to go. Only Irene was well enough to fly and, with the speed at which the ship was travelling, even she would tire long before she made it back to their rocks. 

The only plans Sherlock could conceive necessitated the humans make a mistake first. Had the humans been less well prepared, the Sirens would need only to remove their gags and sing the crew into a trance, quickly giving them control of the ship. As it was, with one guard’s hearing blocked, there would always be at least one crewmember left immune to their Songs and able to thwart their plans. The trio would have to target the sailors with blocked ears first. With their claws and their strength and their wings, mute Sirens were not defenseless – they had been overcome earlier thanks to Sherlock’s rash actions. But now they were injured, outnumbered and out-armed. 

With some mind work Sherlock would think of something. He would come up with something.

*

Sherlock remembered very little of his brief childhood. While humans took two decades to fully grow, Sherlock and his sisters were only half human, and so had matured in half the time. His childhood had also been a very long time ago and the mind could only hold so much information. Sherlock had eventually learned how to store and compartmentalize his memories, how to delete that which was trivial, but before he’d learned this skill, many of his oldest memories were lost. Mostly what remained were flashes of sensation and colour:

The first time he’d caught his own fish - _pride_ \- the scales slippery under his fingers.

 _Exhilaration_ \- he’d jumped from the cliff with only his wings - _terror_ \- to catch him, heartbeat a pounding rhythm in his chest, air a screaming whistle past his ears.

That time Mycroft had fallen - _amusement_ \- into the ocean. She’d surfaced red-faced and spluttering, her wings a sodden mess, and Sherlock had cried with laughter.

Sherlock cherished this last memory nearly above all else. An involuntary grin still broke across his face every time he recalled Mycroft’s expression. 

While what he retained of his childhood memories were scarce, what he did recall with sometimes painful clarity was Mummy. 

Sherlock and his sisters had never known their father, and only knew of him from what their mother had deemed worthwhile sharing. And as the man had been human, Mummy had deemed very little about him worthwhile. All she had admitted was that the human had been beautiful, and Mummy had been angry with her mate at the time.

Like her children, Mummy had had strong, deadly sharp talons, capable of snatching and slicing and tearing. But while the Siren’s had soft, human eyes, their irises ranging from ice blue to moss green, their mother had had eyes like a hawk: large, piercing pupils surrounded by burning ocher irises that filled her eyes entirely. And when the Sirens had compared their wings to their mother’s, Sherlock recalled that her wings had been the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. Her feathers had been transparent, even clearer than sea glass and with a glimmering sheen that caught the eye with unexpected flashes of colour. Seeming too delicate to be real, they had nonetheless been capable of carrying her as far as the air currents would allow, so high that her wings would become impossible to see. When Sherlock had watched her, she had looked like a human woman floating through the clouds.

He recalled her as a sometimes forceful, sometimes neglectful figure. She’d had the power to control the wind as easily as she’d controlled her breath, and the air around her had perpetually quivered with anticipation. Her white hair had been long and wild, her gestures fluttery and her presence in her children’s lives inconsistent. In her periods of calm, she would settle on the rocks with her winged, half-human offspring and teach them how to survive. Often she would push her children to their limits and sometimes beyond, knowing that, for those that did not belong in her world nor that of the humans, life would be unkind.

Her patience would never last, however, and Sherlock had always known when Mummy was about to leave again. He could see the signs: her restlessness would increase, her touches would become even more flitting and her voice would become breathless and breezy. Inevitably, the wind would always call her away again, and when Sherlock would ask her “Where are you going?” she would reply “Wherever the wind takes me.” Then she would produce a gust to carry her high into the sky, higher than the young Sirens could ever hope to follow.

*

Sherlock opened his eyes to shadows flickering in lamplight. Night had fallen and the guards had changed. Quickly, Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the two men, taking in and filtering the multitude of (mostly inconsequential) details. One was red-haired and new to sailing, evidenced by his cloth-wrapped palms, while the other was round, brown-haired, and had years of experience, going by the wear on his boots and his thickly callused hands. Through the creaks and groans of the ship, Sherlock could hear that the ocean was calmer and that the storm had passed over.

The next thing Sherlock became aware of was _pain_. With each beat of his heart his body throbbed. His leg was still bleeding, which explained the light-headedness, and his right wing and shoulder were so excruciating that his stomach roiled. Desperately, he closed his eyes and tried to breathe through it, not wanting to be sick with the gag in his mouth. He attempted to relax his cramping muscles, but the restraints kept his limbs in their uncomfortable position. Overwhelmed, a muted moan slipped free.

“Oi, shut it,” warned Red Hair, his voice nearly breaking with anxiety as he reached for his pistol. “No singin’ or else.”

The other guard make a protesting noise in his throat. “He’s not Singing, he’s hurt.”

Sherlock noticed that neither man had wax in his ears and wondered if this was his chance, if the humans had already made their mistake and his body was being too traitorous for him to take advantage. However another sweep of the brig revealed a third man, also armed, seated by the steps. This man’s ears were unblocked but his eyes were trained on the guards’ mouths as they spoke. From a cord around his neck hung a metal whistle. With a start, Sherlock realized the man was deaf, something so uncommon among seamen that Sherlock had only encountered two so afflicted in his long lifetime. 

“I’ll fetch Watson. This whole bloody journey’s a waste if they all die in the week it will take to reach port,” the guard with the brown hair continued.

“Are you mad?” squawked Red Hair. “You can’t leave me alone with these beasts.” 

Brown Hair looked at the other man with exasperation. “They’re tied up, locked up, and gagged. Besides, you’ve got Willis watching over you.” He indicated the man by the steps.

A deaf man. Brilliant. Problematic, but brilliant. Humans using a hindrance to their advantage. No mortal could resist a Siren Song, but for those who could not hear it, there was nothing to resist. Perfect immunity. The crew was likely scattered with such men whose task it was to intervene should the rest of the crew begin acting strangely. 

While Sherlock assimilated this new datum and the advantage it gave the humans, Red Hair grimaced. “Just hurry about it then. Don’t know why you want to help ‘em, anyhow,” he muttered. “They’re the offspring of the Devil himself.” 

Brown Hair just shook his head in exasperation and made quick hand signals to the deaf-man before scurrying up the steps. Sherlock took note of the hand signs and stored them in a corner of his mind for later.

“I’m watchin’ you,” Red Hair warned Sherlock, scrutinizing him with his beady eyes. “Don’t try no tricks.”

Sherlock ignored the cowardly human to study his siblings. Irene really was asleep now, still huddled under her blanket. Mycroft was breathing shallowly and was obviously pale, even under the weak candlelight that lit the prison cells. She appeared unconscious but her face was tense with pain, and Sherlock felt a protective rage ignite unbidden in his chest. He had always desired excitement and escape from the hell of the islands, but his imaginings had not included his sisters. Beautiful, cunning and deadly, Irene and Mycroft were meant to be Sirens, revelled in it. It was Sherlock who was the odd one, a freak among monsters. When the tedium drove him to the brink of insanity, Irene might sympathize or she might chastise, while Mycroft would understand but not empathize. 

“Together we are unbeatable, Sherlock,” she would admonish, when his behaviour went from wild to manic. “We belong on the same side. Remember what Mummy always said? You belong here.” And Sherlock would rub his skin against the rocks until he bled, anything to drown out the whirring of an overactive brain with nothing to hold its focus.

For the sisters, their purpose was undeniable and inescapable, and the islands the only home they knew. Why bother pining for anything more? The sisters looked at humans and saw meat, prey and weakness. Sherlock looked at humans and saw freedom and mystery. He saw escape from gray rock and gray sea and gray sky. He would sing his boring Song because it was what he was made to do, the only thing he could do, a purpose so deeply ingrained that resistance barely even occurred to him. And his Song had worked every time. 

Every time save this one. 

_You got what you wanted_ , Sherlock castigated himself. _And look where it has got you_. 

A dull pounding of footsteps drew Sherlock’s eye to the brig’s entrance. Brown Hair climbed down the steep steps, holding a bucket of water, followed by Sherlock’s physician. John Watson’s clothing was covered in rust-coloured stains and he held a black sack in his right hand. The lines in his face expressed a deep weariness and sadness. More of the sailors must have died of their injuries, then. Sherlock tensed, preparing for the human’s anger, though tied and injured he would not be able to put up much of a defense. Humans were illogical and passionate creatures, and violence stalked their grief. However, John Watson’s eyes swept over the Sirens with resignation rather than anger. He quickly observed their conditions and nodded at Mycroft. 

“This one requires my attention first. Unlock her cell, Stamford,” he demanded. 

Brown Hair retrieved the keys from where they were dangling from his belt, stepping towards Mycroft’s cell without hesitation. Red Hair shifted anxiously and pulled out his pistol.

“Relax, Prescott,” John Watson ordered. “You fire that in such tight quarters and you’re as likely to hit yourself or one of us as you are to hit your target. We’ve had enough carnage for one day.” 

“It’s unnatural,” Red Hair, Prescott, whined. “These creatures, beautiful an’ winged like angels, but with teeth an’ appetites like sharks. Let ‘em suffer.” 

“Shut it, you cowardly swine,” Stamford muttered. 

Irene had awakened with all the noise and she met Sherlock’s gaze, her expression stony, before turning to watch the humans. She tensed as John Watson entered Mycroft’s cell. 

John Watson placed his hand under Mycroft’s nose to feel her breathing, then firmly rubbed his knuckles along her sternum. His touch was objective and did not stray to her breasts. When the Siren did not stir, he took out his knife and began cutting the bonds on her wings.

“What are you doing?” Prescott nearly shrieked, his tone painful for Sherlock's sensitive ears. “Don’t let ‘er go!” 

“She is unconscious,” John Watson snapped back. “And I require access to her wing.” 

“Damn her wing, you are mad!” Prescott moved towards the steps, but Stamford stopped him with a hand to the chest. 

“Doc knows what he’s doing. Now do your duty and defend Doc if need be.”

Prescott clenched his hands into fists, but stepped back to his previous position. “You’ll send us to the Locker, yet,” he hissed. 

Silence fell, only the creaking of the ship, the sound of the ocean and quiet breathing audible. John Watson had opened his black bag to retrieve silver tweezers, which he gripped in his left hand. Irene made a nervous hum, too quiet for human ears, and Sherlock growled softly at her in warning. She glanced at him and he shook his head minutely. John Watson was trying to give help, and if Irene began to sing, violence would erupt instead. She had not noticed the deaf-man silently watching over them all.

Carefully but efficiently, John Watson retrieved the three lead rounds from Mycroft’s wing, then cleaned the wounds with salt water from the bucket. Pulling white bandages from his sack, he hesitated briefly, unsure, before simply wrapping the bandage around the entire wing in a figure eight pattern. He then bound the wing to Mycroft’s body to immobilize it. 

“She’s lost a lot of blood,” John said as he cleaned up. “I’ll need to feed her water before she wakes so she will not sing when I remove the gag.” 

Prescott, whose nervousness was nearly tangible, spoke up. “I’ll fetch some, shall I?” he offered, and fled with a noisy clattering of boots.

“He will tell the captain,” Stamford said as John Watson exited the cell, which Stamford again locked. 

“Let him,” John Watson replied, coming over to Sherlock’s cell. “I was hired as the ship’s physician, and so I will act as such.”

“Physician to the crew,” Stamford pointed out, coming over and unlocking Sherlock’s cell.

“I’ve done all that I can for the crew for the moment.” 

The physician entered the cell and Sherlock met his gaze and held it, chin raised proudly. This was the human Sherlock had planned to snatch away like a fish out of the sea, and instead he sat bound and at the human’s mercy. 

“Now I will do what I can here,” John Watson continued, breaking Sherlock’s gaze. His storm-blue eyes ran over Sherlock’s body, appraising his injuries. This close, his human scent surrounded Sherlock like a cloud, and the Siren’s mouth watered automatically. He swallowed thickly and saw the physician’s eyes flick to the movement of his throat. John Watson tensed slightly, recognizing the predator in the Siren.

 _Observant human_ , Sherlock approved. If Sherlock could take John Watson back to his cave, he would keep him alive as long as possible. He would collect rain water and sea weed and fish to feed him, and he would keep him warm with his soft feathers. In return John Watson would answer all of Sherlock’s questions. The man’s knowledge of medicine was obvious, but there was more to him than that. His gait said _new to the sea_ , his mannerisms and competence under stress said _military_ , and his posture said _shoulder injury_. Yes, Sherlock would keep him, his own little mystery to unravel. Eventually, though, the human would die, as they always did, and Sherlock would have to eat him, like he always did. 

This was much more interesting. 

“I know you are in pain,” John Watson murmured, addressing Sherlock directly. “And I wish only to aid you. May I remove some of your bonds without threat to my person? If you attack me, Stamford will simply shoot you and that will be that.”

This human was very curious. Why risk himself to help a monster? Sherlock had nearly snatched him away and Irene and Mycroft had successfully maimed and killed half a dozen of his fellow humans. Was John Watson very brave or very stupid? No, not very stupid, Sherlock had already determined that. Perhaps it was the danger he craved, the thrill of handling and dominating an untameable Siren. Or perhaps his caregiving instincts applied to non-humans as well. 

The human raised an eyebrow at Sherlock in query, waiting for a response. Sherlock huffed. His wing really did hurt. He nodded once.

John Watson made a small smile, accentuating the lines around his eyes handsomely. “Good, then.” 

Quickly he took out his knife and cut through the ropes holding Sherlock’s wings. Without the restraints, Sherlock lacked the strength to hold up his heavy wings, and he made a strangled noise of pain when they sagged. The broken bones shifting put black spots in his vision and for a moment he feared he would lose consciousness. 

“Alright, breathe,” John Watson murmured and Sherlock complied automatically. With each inhale his vision cleared a bit, but the pain did not fade. He was suddenly grateful for the gag, which he bit hard to hold back a scream. 

Gently, John Watson felt out the bones of Sherlock’s wing, and what would normally be a pleasurable touch instead wracked his body with pain. Sherlock could not stop himself from leaning away from the human and pressing against the cell’s cold bars. A section of rough metal dug into his arm painfully, nearly piercing his skin and forcing him to shift again. The human hummed disapprovingly. “Yes, two breaks, not good. I will bind these as well as possible, but I fear…well, we will see, won’t we?” He looked at Sherlock’s face and frowned at what he saw. “Stamford, fetch a bottle of rum, will you? I think Daniels was sipping one earlier and left it there by the stairs. Under Willis’s feet.” 

Stamford grabbed the bottle and handed it to John Watson. 

“Thank you,” the physician said. He placed the bottle on the ground and gave Sherlock a stern look. “Do not bite me and do not sing, are we in accord?” 

“Is that wise?” Stamford queried, tense and questioning John Watson for the first time.

“I’d use morphine, but I’m short on supply,” the physician replied, frowning. He had a doubtful expression, as though he wanted to blame the dwindling supply on a miscount on his part, but was suspicious of pilfering on the part of the crew.

John Watson moved behind Sherlock and began working at the knot. The motion of his fingers tugged gently at Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock had to quickly suppress a shiver. 

“’Sides, Willis is here, and attempting to set the bones without anything to dull the pain would be tantamount to torture. The screaming would send the crew into a panic.”

Sherlock resented this implication of weakness. Even bound, with the human crouching over him like this, Sherlock could easily harm or even kill him. He considered – imagined launching himself at John Watson and bashing his head against the cell’s bars – and quickly dismissed the idea, the pain of his wing making him nauseated. Any excessive movement was extremely undesirable at the moment. 

“And he won’t make a noise, because he needs my help. You wish to fly again, don’t you?” John Watson addressed Sherlock directly, hands pausing. 

Obviously Sherlock wanted to fly again. What a stupid question. Sherlock rolled his eyes to express this. 

John Watson’s eyes widened in surprise and he chuckled. “There, you see?” he said to Stamford. He finished untying the knot behind Sherlock’s head and then carefully removed the sodden gag. Sherlock worked his sore jaw and tongue, but remained silent and did not attempt to bite. 

“You care too much,” Stamford muttered, his entire body tensed with anxiety at seeing the Siren again in possession of his greatest weapon. 

“This is our fault,” John Watson replied. He deftly pulled the cork out of the bottle’s opening and brought the bottle to Sherlock’s lips.

The scent of it burned his nostrils and Sherlock reared back automatically, freezing as another spike of agony jolted from his wing, through his shoulder and down his spine. 

“Steady. This will taste bloody awful, but it’ll dull the pain.”

Sherlock attempted to school his expression into cool stoicism, but the deep ache was overwhelming in its severity, tearing through his body and muddling his brain. Anything that would relieve it was welcome. And this was simply data collection. He’d never tasted alcohol before. 

Leaning forward, he accepted the rim of the bottle between his lips. John Watson was watching him closely, and carefully tipped the bottle until liquid invaded his mouth. A mild burning sensation exploded across his tongue, the slightest hint of sweetness detected underneath. He swallowed automatically and grimaced as it scorched down his throat. 

John Watson chuckled at his reaction and Stamford snorted.

“A few sips will be plenty, I reckon,” John Watson commented, loud enough for Stamford to hear and with a wry twist to his lips.

Stubbornly, Sherlock forced another four mouthfuls down his throat before John Watson took the bottle out of his reach. The human recorked the bottle. Already a strange warmth was forming in Sherlock’s chest, his esophagus, his belly. 

“Alright, I’m going to put this back in,” John Watson stated, retrieving the gag from his belt. His tone and expression brooked no argument. 

Sherlock again considered attacking the man, but his brain was beginning to feel a bit dull around the edges, and his head felt oddly heavy. He wasn't sure he liked it. And it would be a shame to kill such a competent and attractive human. So he just opened his mouth and accepted the repulsively damp cloth between his teeth. 

As John Watson secured the gag with a knot at the back of his head, Sherlock swayed slightly, leaning his forehead against the human’s chest. Beneath the physician’s shirt, something small and hard and circular rested, and the object pressed into Sherlock’s forehead. There was a quiet tinkling sound when it moved. John Watson was very warm and smelled delicious. If his wing did not hurt quite so much, Sherlock would have liked to take a bite. Just a small one.

“Oi, you’re making me nervous, Watson.” 

“It’s fine,” John Watson reassured, leaning back. Of course a small bite would be fine. It wouldn’t even kill a human. Sherlock vaguely wished for John Watson to come closer again so that Sherlock could lean on him. Instead, John Watson positioned himself to Sherlock’s right side and pulled his black bag next to him. 

“This is going to be unpleasant,” he warned. “But try to remain silent and do not move.”

Sherlock huffed and blinked slowly. It was already unpleasant. His wing was on fire. 

Then the human moved his wing and the fire exploded into an inferno. Sherlock bit back a screech, trying to settle back into the fuzziness of his mind as his shattered wing was manipulated and wrapped. His breaths came in harsh pants and he squeezed his eyes tightly. Sherlock could practically hear the bones shifting and could not help jerking against his bonds. 

“Hush, hush, nearly finished.”

Sherlock growled and quickly cut off the sound, remembering the need for silence. Very, very softly, nearly inaudibly, Sherlock could hear Irene humming, and he focused hard on the sound of her voice. 

The torture continued for what felt like decades, until at last the hands released his tightly wrapped and secured wing. With his left wing splayed behind him, Sherlock felt off balance, a state that was not helped by the rum. 

A small, calloused hand brushed against his damp forehead, wiping away the sweat before it could get into his eyes. Exhausted, Sherlock could not help but lean into the touch.

“I must clean and wrap your thigh, and then I’ll be done,” John Watson murmured. 

Sherlock would rather leave his thigh, which had mostly stopped bleeding, but the physician gave him no choice. Quickly he doused the wound with salt water, and Sherlock hissed and tensed at the stinging agony. With efficient movements, the physician wrapped his leg with white bandages. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee once the bandages were secure.

“Finished. Rest now.”

Then John Watson was repacking his black bag and leaving Sherlock’s cell, which clanked shut behind him. The haziness in his mind made it hard to keep his eyes open, but when he leaned against the bars, something sharp poked him in the side again. So he spread out his uninjured wing to lie on and rubbed his face into his soft feathers. 

That night was spent fitfully. The pain in his wing was a constant thing, able to be ignored until he shifted the wrong way and the fire flared. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft being given water and Irene being treated for her minor injuries. There was a guard change at some point. 

The cold of the brig had him shivering in a way that was decidedly painful and had him curling into himself. With his right wing the way it was, he lacked the maneuverability to blanket himself like he normally would. His body, normally nothing more than the vessel for his mind, was truly rebelling. 

When the last of the rum’s effects wore off a couple of hours later, Sherlock gave it up as a bad job and awkwardly pushed himself to sitting. Through the slightest gap in the ship’s planks, dawn’s weak rays just barely slipped through. His head hurt and his muscles were tight from the combination of pain and his bindings. 

Blurrily, he glanced at the guards, hoping for a distraction. He started in surprise when he saw one of the men already observing him, open fascination on his face. When Sherlock caught his gaze, the human quickly looked away. Sherlock glanced at the other man, took in his fidgeting, his tearing eyes, the way he periodically wiped his running nose with his shirt sleeve, and remembered something John Watson had said hours before. _Short on supply_. The connection he made in his brain was not explosive, but it was a relief – proof that his mind had not completely deserted him. 

As the day progressed, Sherlock came to the realization that being locked in a cell was unbearably dull. Escape from the rocks was hardly worth it with this view – the browns of the ship instead of the grays of the sea. He missed his collection of human trinkets, which could be sufficiently distracting. Each one was tied to the memory of the human who had once owned it, and Sherlock would peruse these memories when he was in a maudlin mood. Mycroft would scoff if she knew. 

Mycroft, like Sherlock, was in considerable pain still, though with their supernatural blood they were already beginning to heal. At some hour of the morning John Watson returned to check their injuries and to give them supplies – a blanket for Sherlock, water and some sort of ‘hard tack’ the humans considered food. That the man expected Sherlock to eat the stuff was nearly offensive, and he would have thrown the lump of stuff at the human were he not bound. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers, y’hear? And if you don’t eat, your wing won’t heal,” John Watson warned. 

Sherlock tried to snap at him that that wasn’t how it worked for Sirens, that if John Watson wanted Sherlock to eat, then the human’s arm would be much more nourishing, _cheers_. Instead, the moment his gag was removed, John Watson shoved the hard lump thing into his mouth, indifferent to Sherlock’s sharp teeth. Clearly the man was deranged. 

With asphyxiation the only other option, and John Watson’s steely gaze boring into him, Sherlock reluctantly chewed the lump to a grainy paste, and was only able to swallow it with a swig of water. When he was done, John Watson gave him a bland smile.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked condescendingly, and Sherlock glowered. “No need to sulk, I’m only trying to help,” the human continued, and proceeded to replace the gag. 

Sherlock glared. He was a deadly, terrifying Siren, capable of enticing entire ships to watery graves. He did not sulk.

After the physician left, there was not much else to occupy Sherlock’s attention. The ship rocked and creaked, and his body ached, though sitting on the blanket helped return some sensation to his numb backside. Irene lay naked in her cell, arching her back occasionally and snickering when the guards shuffled and coughed awkwardly. Mycroft briefly attempted to preen her ruffled feathers, but her bindings made it impossible. Somehow she managed to keep a dignified air about her even locked behind bars. 

John Watson had said ‘I’m only trying to help’. And that was true, wasn’t it. His actions so far had been of his own volition, stemming from his desire to limit suffering. The question was why the captain allowed it. The captain’s hate and fear of the Sirens were obvious, so why bother providing medical treatment and food? Wherever their final destination, the captain wanted the Sirens in good condition. Sherlock rolled the thought around his mind like he would a small bone with his tongue. The idea was worrying.

*

Singing had always been an integral part of Sherlock’s life. Mummy had often told them that when they’d been born, right here on these very rocks, they had come into the world singing. Sherlock had not thought that very likely, but had not had any proof otherwise.

Mummy’s voice had been one of her best tools, and she had taught her children everything she’d known. She’d taught them how to change their voices to sound like anything, to impersonate anything they heard. The Sirens would watch in awe as Mummy would attract dolphins with playful clicks and sea birds with mating calls. When Mummy was gone, they would practice by telling each other stories and changing their voices to fit their characters. 

She’d taught them how to throw their voices, to make it sound like a rock could speak or an old fishbone could sing. For Sherlock, hiding in his small cave to escape the annoyance of his sisters no long offered any solace, as the girls had gained the ability to throw squawks and shrieks and twitters all the way from the other rock formation, the oral version of being repeatedly poked in the ribs. It was an entirely irritating talent. 

When the Sirens were nearly fully grown, Mummy had taught them one final skill: how to sing their Songs. Of course they’d sung before that, mimicking the tunes they’d heard from Mummy, but this had been different. These Songs had not been for fun – they’d had power.

“These islands are your own, your home, your haven,” Mummy had promised, extending her wings to embrace her children. After nine years of existence, Sherlock, Mycroft and Irene had nearly obtained their full statures, but still Mummy had towered a full head above Sherlock, the tallest of the siblings. “But this place may not always be unknown to those who would do you harm. You must know how to protect yourselves.”

Mummy had clasped Sherlock’s hands first, meeting and holding her son’s gaze with her inhuman orange eyes. Beneath their talons the rock was cold and unyielding, damp with seawater.

“Feel the rock beneath your flesh,” she had begun, and Sherlock had fought not to roll his eyes. She’d hated when he’d done that. “Here is your strength, your power, your connection to me, your mother. Feel the energy that flows here thanks to me.”

As she had spoken, Sherlock had been surprised to indeed feel a connection jolt through him. He’d looked at his mother with wide eyes, feeling this link travelling from her and through the rocks to fill his entire being. He’d taken in her snow white hair whipping in the wind of her making, her glass-clear feathers quivering with energy and her white-less eyes burning with her complete focus. He’d felt her boundless power, an energy derived from raw instinct and ancient blood beyond his comprehension, and had felt terrifyingly small. While looking at his mother and holding her human-like hands with his own, he’d realized that his mother was a creature with a history too vast for him to comprehend. 

“This is my power that I am sharing with you, infused in these rocks, your home, to strengthen and protect you. Sherlock,” she’d murmured, “use my power and Sing.” 

His hands still in hers and with energy thrumming in his veins, he’d opened his mouth and Sung.

*

The return of night brought with it colder temperatures and John Watson with more ‘hard tack’. Sherlock was sick of it already – if he was expected to eat it twice a day for the duration of this voyage, however long it may be, he would gladly die of starvation first. Besides, he could go days without food.

The physician was surprised by Sherlock's rapidly healing thigh, which already had the beginnings of new muscle and skin tissue. Within a week not even a scar would remain. When he checked Sherlock’s wing, Sherlock hissed only once, though the pain was intense. Unlike his leg, Sherlock was not optimistic that his wing would heal properly, regardless of his body’s regenerative abilities and his physician's skill. It was likely that the bones would not set correctly. 

“Just chop the thing off,” one of the guards recommended nastily as John Watson worked. “Or put ‘im down. What good’s a bird that can’t fly?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes. The human’s question reflected Sherlock’s thoughts exactly.

Next to him, John Watson tensed, though his hands remained gentle. “He’s not a bird, Pearce.”

“Nah, you’re right. He’s a monster. An’ soon he’ll be nothin’ but a pet. Pet birds don’t need’a fly, do they?”

Sherlock could hear John Watson grind his teeth together, but when he checked the human’s expression, it was too complex for him to read. There was anger, but his mouth was downturned and his gaze was trained very hard on Sherlock’s wing. Sentiment was really not Sherlock’s area.

That night, Sherlock’s bindings became especially aggravating. He was in pain, but moreover, his inability to move was becoming mentally taxing. When the ship rocked it was nearly impossible to keep his balance, he could not scratch his nose, and the rope chafed in a way that was beyond uncomfortable and now infuriating. He had no outlet for his irritation as he could not spit insults at his sisters, he could not pace, he could not fidget, he could not pick or scratch or cut. He was stuck, stuck, he could not _move_.

Slowly, he dragged his talons into the wood of the floor, creating furrows and shavings. If he could not stretch his muscles soon he was sure he would go mad. When he closed his eyes all he heard were the creaks of the ship, the shuffling footsteps of the guards and the rush of the ocean against the ship. For once, Sherlock would welcome sleep simply to escape the tedium, but his discomfort was too great.

Next to him, Irene was shifting about on the floor, too. As much as she enjoyed employing ropes on her victims, it seemed she was less keen to be the one restrained. 

“Hey! You!”

Sherlock looked up abruptly and met the gaze of the guard with the thick knuckles and teeth (or lack thereof) of a regular brawler. Delightful.

“Yeah. Stop doin’ that,” the man ordered, indicating the deep divots Sherlock’s talons were making.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, exuding disinterest, and proceeded to dig especially hard into the wood. 

“Can you not understand me?” the guard spat. “Or have ya got a death wish?”

Sherlock blinked and raised both eyebrows. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his talons in again, reveling in the wood’s protesting creaks. 

The guard’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he spun towards the second guard. “Give me the keys,” he said, holding his hand out. “The keys,” he repeated, letting his partner read his lips. 

There was the clinking of metal and then the brawler was unlocking Sherlock’s cell door and stepping into the small space. Sherlock raised his chin defiantly and scratched one final time at the wood. 

“That’s it, freak,” he snarled, and lunged. 

Sherlock aimed his talons at the human, but with his ankles tied together, he lacked range and control. The brute easily swiped Sherlock’s legs aside, dumping him to the floor. Bound, on his side, he was defenseless. The human kicked him savagely in the shins before hauling him up by the arm and delivering an unyielding fist once, twice to Sherlock’s left cheekbone. Satisfied, he dropped Sherlock into a heap and exited the cell, loudly clanging the door shut. The whole thing took less than twenty seconds.

Sherlock curled on his side, panting. Oh, Gods did it hurt. His face felt swollen, his shins throbbed and his injured wing was screaming. But the adrenaline – so worth it. Yes, the excitement, the action. His blood was singing and he would have laughed if he could. Instead he just made an undignified snorting noise through his groans.

“Shut it unless you want more.”

Sherlock was tempted to snigger, but reigned in the impulse. Once was probably enough for the night. His sisters were looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern. The concern was unnecessary. His shins would be healed by morning and his cheek perhaps a few hours after that. The exasperation was just annoying – Sherlock did not need their judgement. 

Sherlock focused on the physical pain to ignore his endlessly racing mind. Nothing his sisters hadn’t seen before.

*

“Mummy, may I come with you?”

Her eyes had been especially wild this time and she had barely glanced at her son when she’d replied.

“No, Sherlock.”

“Just this once. I promise not to slow you down.”

She’d looked at him then, and her inhuman eyes had softened.

“Hush, you cannot come.”

“Mum--!”

“No, Sherlock! Here, you have strength and safety. As long as you are here, I am with you.”

“That does not—”

Her wings had shifted restlessly. 

“Promise me you will not leave. Sherlock.”

Sherlock had wanted to protest, had had a whole argument prepared, but Mummy had gripped his arm hard enough to hurt and her anxiousness had put him on edge. 

“Yes, Mummy.”

*

With eyes that were quite keen for a human, John Watson noticed Sherlock’s bruised face the moment he entered the brig the next morning, glanced at the guard’s swollen knuckles, and snarled:

“What did you do?”

Sherlock was used to hearing this question demanded in this tone. What was surprising was that it was not directed at him. 

John Watson glared at the guard with disgust before placing the provisions he’d brought on the floor and striding over to Sherlock’s cell to look at the Siren’s injuries. His dark blue eyes appeared almost brown in the poor light, the bags under his eyes more pronounced today. The bruise on his left temple was now a shade of violet. Sherlock let his gaze rove over the human, hungrily taking in the little details that gave away John Watson’s movements since the previous day. There was a speck of blood behind the physician’s left ear that Sherlock found especially intriguing. 

As Sherlock watched, John Watson’s gaze strayed to Sherlock’s uncovered lap before quickly darting back to his face. Were he not a medical man, Sherlock was sure the human would have been blushing.

Sherlock had never understood the human obsession with the covering of genitals. What shame was there in a body? The first time the Sirens had seen clothing had been the first time they’d seen humans, and he recalled that they’d laughed at the odd garments. That first time, it had been a shock when, as the Sirens had begun their Songs, the humans had been compelled _towards_ the rocks rather than away. (Mummy had never explained _how_ their Songs would work as weapons, only that the Songs would serve to protect them). After the surprise and the panic and the shipwreck, the siblings had tried on the clothing and had deemed it too ridiculous, cumbersome and scratchy to bear.

Of course, for humans, clothing was practical – their frail bodies were not as well equipped to withstand the elements. A new perspective overcame him suddenly, and Sherlock briefly imagined all the dangers the world posed to humans: extreme cold, the sun’s harsh light, rusted nails and jagged wood, vicious animals, other humans, disease... The list quickly became overwhelming. There John Watson stood, separated from Sherlock, the most dangerous creature he would likely ever face, by metal rods and barely one wing’s length, and he was completely unaware of his own vulnerability.

The gap-toothed guard aimed an unimpressed look at the back of John Watson’s head. “The freak was bein’ a pest. Had to put ‘im in ‘is place.”

John Watson frowned and turned to face the guard. His trousers clung to his legs and Sherlock admired the musculature hinted at through the fabric. 

“A ‘pest’ how, exactly?”

“Well, ‘e vandalized the ship, he did! Wouldn’t stop when I told ‘im to,” the guard declared, indicating the claw marks in the wood near Sherlock’s taloned feet. "Probably too stupid to understand." 

John Watson knew that Sherlock could understand English. Sherlock watched John Watson’s expressive face as the human observed the claw marks, looked over Sherlock’s bound form, and then glanced over at Irene’s and Mycroft’s cells to check their behaviour. Irene was fidgeting nearly constantly, muted growling coming through her gag as she jerked and twisted on the ground. Mycroft, who was leaning against the wall in a semblance of control, suffered from involuntary muscle twitches periodically, the lines around her eyes tense with discomfort. John Watson’s thought process was easy to follow as his face expressed first focus, then realization, then regret and guilt, and finally resolution. He had come to some decision. 

John Watson nodded once briskly, to himself, executed a nearly military clean turn, and left the brig. Sherlock clenched his jaw in irritation, and then jerked especially hard against his restraints when the gag stopped his teeth from grinding satisfactorily. He had been looking forward to interacting with his physician this morning, feeling the human’s warm touch and inhaling his delicious scent as he rebandaged Sherlock’s wing. Now this was denied to him as well.

“Oi!” the guard slammed his hand against the bars of Irene’s cell, making the metal rattle. The second guard, who wore earplugs, watched on from a seat in the corner, completely impassive. “Sit still, wench.”

Irene glared at the man until he shifted uncomfortably and turned away, and then she continued to squirm. Sherlock began tapping out an erratic rhythm with his right talon, faltering and without pattern. With any luck it would annoy Mycroft into glaring at him. 

It was only moments later that a clamoring of footsteps heralded the return of John Watson, this time with the female in tow. Sherlock squirmed into a more upright position so that he could better observe. The woman bore a strong resemblance to John Watson, with similar dishwater blond hair, thin lips and bags under her eyes, though her nose was smaller than his. Due to their closeness in age, Sherlock strongly suspected they were siblings. 

“Just look, Harry,” John Watson murmured to her, gesturing at the cells. “They’re exhausted and in pain.”

The female swept her gaze over the Sirens, her expression impassive.

“Just an hour each, to let them stretch out their muscles,” John Watson continued, tone insistent but not needling. 

Harry crossed her arms and frowned, a little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “He will not allow it.” She spoke quietly, but with a Siren’s hearing their conversation was not private.

“He listens to you. I’ll watch them myself –”

“He’s terrified, John! I told you what happened to him all those years ago, and it’s that experience that made him captain for this mission, but that doesn’t mean he’d be comfortable with letting them loose –”

“Not loose. They'd still be caged. Please, sister,” John Watson said quietly, cutting off Harry’s rising voice. “They are suffering.”

For a moment the siblings stared at each, and Sherlock recognized the understanding between them, that seamless communication he sometimes felt with his own sisters.

Finally Harry’s expression softened and she sighed. “I know you mean well, John, but sometimes your endless empathy can be a right nuisance, you hear?”

Though she had not agreed to anything, John Watson smiled at her. “Thanks, Harry.”

She smiled back but it faded quickly. “He might not listen to me. He’s not right pleased with me, right now.” She glanced at the guards before pulling her brother closer to the stairs, away from the other humans. She lowered her voice even more. “He’s a good man, but I just can’t – I’m not –”

John Watson reached for Harry’s hand and she gripped it tightly, her eyes excessively wet. She raised her chin stubbornly and looked away, though kept her hand in her brother’s.

“I know, Harry. I know. But you have to try.” John Watson hesitated. “He cares for you.”

Harry briefly squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes, I know. I’ll try.” She met his eyes then, and her gaze was steely. “For you though, not for them.” She jerked her head towards Irene, who was watching the female avidly. Sherlock wondered if Irene was remembering the one female she had claimed nearly a decade ago. She had kept that one for nearly two days. “They killed Jonas, just a boy really!”

“Yes, the deaths among the crew are awful, but, Harry… we provoked them. Knowing the threat they posed and with our own plan of attack, we invaded their territory. They reacted appropriately.”

Harry removed her hand from her brother’s. “Their kind has killed uncountable people, John,” Harry insisted, voice rising again. One of the guards glanced over at the siblings with interest.

John Watson’s voice darkened. “As have some of the crew. As have I.”

“This is different.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You were in a war, John! These creatures…they kill for sport. They – they eat people!”

John shook his head, brow furrowed. “What proof – ”

“This way they will no longer be a threat. And at least we're not exterminating them.”

John Watson frowned. “Honestly, that might be the preferable option.” Harry opened her mouth to protest and John Watson continued quickly. “Besides, what proof do we have of their guilt other than the story of one man? This entire expedition is based on your husband’s wild tale.”

“Well, he found them, didn’t he?”

“After a fortnight of searching, yes.” 

“If you don’t agree with the King’s mission then why are you even here?” Harry snapped, losing patience.

John Watson was silent, and Sherlock wished he could see the human’s expression. 

Harry deflated immediately. “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” His voice was gruff. 

Harry sighed. She reached out and brushed her hand over the center of her brother’s chest, where Sherlock recalled a hard ring hung from a chain around John Watson’s neck. “Look, I’ll try, alright? I said I would.”

John Watson cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, good. Thanks.”

As Harry left to speak with the captain, John Watson entered Mycroft’s cage to tend to her wounds. The Siren, who had always hated being touched and was especially restless now, growled at him through her gag, the sound coming from low in her throat. The physician paused warily just inside the cell. He stared hard at Mycroft and pursed his lips before straightening his already stiff shoulders and moving to crouch next to his patient. She growled again and Sherlock felt himself bristle. She had no right to threaten Sherlock’s human. 

“Don’t bother trying to intimidate me,” John Watson said casually, hands moving to her healing wing. “In your current state, I think we’d both find it embarrassing, hm?”

Mycroft glared at him, offended and outraged, and Sherlock could not stop from laughing into his gag. Sherlock could not remember the last time he had genuinely laughed, and in response to his audible amusement, John Watson looked over at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock knew the human could see how his eyes crinkled in mirth, and John Watson grinned at him. The rearrangement of facial features made this dangerous, brave human even more endearing, and a sharp warmth spread in Sherlock's upper abdomen. Hunger pangs, no doubt.

The brief moment of amusement did not last. When Harry returned she looked at her brother and simply shook her head, expression pinched. John Watson cursed creatively. 

“Even prisoners deserve some level of comfort.”

“They’re practically animals, John,” Harry offered, trying to soothe.

“But they’re not. I am unsure of their intelligence, but they do understand.” He met Sherlock’s gaze again, his deep blue eyes filled with something like regret. Sherlock wondered if John Watson’s gracious opinions of the Sirens would change if he knew just how intelligent Sherlock and his sisters were. If he knew that Sherlock could rationalize and deduce and learn and still decided to kill. He found himself reluctant to find out.

After John Watson left, the Sirens were left still bound and restless, their patience at its limit. This would be their third night in the brig, the longest Sherlock had ever gone without seeing the open sky. He fought to ignore an increasing sense of claustrophobia, but his inability to move made it difficult. His heart rate had increased slightly and his breathing was shallow.

That evening the physician did not return and the Sirens were not given any food or drink. Sherlock’s frustration was at a breaking point. All attempts at focusing his mind escaped him. Instead he was consumed by the hungers and aches of his body: rope biting into his skin, gag chafing at the corners of his mouth, and the human scent that filled the brig. It was hot and salty, mouth-watering after going so long without a taste. For once, the usual guilt that accompanied this particular hunger was easily ignored. These humans’ actions demanded retaliation and their position of superiority was infuriating. Sherlock could rip them limb from limb were he of a mind to. He imagined tearing flesh with his sharp teeth, imagined enjoying it. 

He imagined golden skin, compact muscles shifting and tensing under Sherlock’s hands. A small body containing impressive strength, but no match for Sherlock’s. John Watson had been in a war, had military written all over him. He would enjoy danger, would find it thrilling like Sherlock did. The Siren imagined the way John Watson’s eyelids would flutter when Sherlock grazed his sharp teeth against the human’s carotid artery. Hot blood pulsing under Sherlock’s tongue. Yielding flesh would flush with arousal and hips would press up against Sherlock, seeking. The hard heat of him, fighting but not trying to escape. 

Irene tapped a talon against a cell bar and Sherlock’s wild eyes snapped to hers, his rocking immediately ceasing. She looked at him meaningfully and glanced at their guards. Sherlock followed her gaze. One guard, without earplugs and therefore without hearing, sat by candlelight, reading. A glint of metal revealed the whistle hanging in front of his chest. The other guard, Sherlock recognized as the young sailor that had been tied to the mast, the compass that had pointed towards the Sirens. 

A jolt of excitement helped clear Sherlock’s hazy mind. This human had already listened to their Songs, had heard and absorbed their seductive promises. He would remember them still and would remember that irresistible attraction. With any luck, said attraction still lingered. 

The sisters were both watching their brother, and Sherlock inclined his head minutely. Slowly he pushed himself with his bound feet to lean against the bars of his cell, careful of his position, and let his eyes droop. In the cell next to him, Irene began a slow writhe on the ground. Like Sherlock, Irene’s arms were bound to her body with her hands in front of her, and she pressed her wrists deliberately between her legs. Her pelvis began thrusting gently and she moaned in pleasure.

Sherlock watched through heavy lids as the younger sailor’s eyes widened with realization at what Irene was doing. She made another noise, high and breathy, and lust clouded the sailor’s eyes. The deaf guard continued reading, unaware. 

Sherlock pressed his left side against the cell bars, enjoying the cool metal against the irritated skin of his upper arm. In comparison to his other injuries, the angry red scratches there would be insignificant if not for their cause. The effects of the rum had not erased the memory of _pain tearing through wing_ , and _automatically recoiling_ , and _sharp metal digging into skin_.

Sherlock began a subtle back-and-forth rocking motion, his movement appearing to be restlessness or psychosis. With every shift he could hear the rope fraying. 

Irene began to thrust her hips more urgently, pressing her wrists harder against herself. She curled her fingers between her legs, but her bindings made it impossible for her to reach herself. Sherlock could just detect the scent of arousal, from the sailor and Irene both, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust – Irene was enjoying herself far too much. 

Irene gazed at the young sailor longingly and he took a nearly involuntary step closer, attention rapt on her. The deaf man still did not notice and Sherlock rocked faster, ignoring the twinges of pain when the rough metal caught against his skin. He hoped Mycroft was attempting to cut her ropes with her talons, but she was likely unable to complete the necessary contortions. She was too lazy and fat. Of course Irene and Sherlock were doing all the work. 

Irene did a twisting writhe with her hips and threw her head back theatrically. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her dramatics, but they were effective. The sailor gasped in arousal, his trousers noticeably tented, his hands trembling at his sides. He took another step forward, nearly touching the bars of Irene’s cell, and finally the deaf man noticed. 

The rope fell away. 

Sherlock inhaled sharply as the metal cut his arm and he froze. He continued leaning against the bars to hold the rope up for appearance’s sake, but the deaf man did not look in his direction. He looked at the younger sailor’s back, his brow furrowed. From where he sat, Irene was mostly obscured. 

The young sailor was pressed fully against Irene’s cell now, hands gripping the bars tightly. Irene made a nearly desperate sound in her throat and the sailor jerked towards her reflexively. Sherlock felt smug on his sister’s behalf – even without her Song this was the power she had over human men. 

The deaf man stood, placing down his book, whistle swinging around his neck. Sherlock tensed. He would have to act quickly now. 

With hesitant steps, the deaf man approached the young sailor, coming closer to Sherlock’s cell. When he placed a hand on the younger sailor’s shoulder, the latter jerked in surprise and pulled away. The deaf man gripped him again, this time attempting to turn the younger man around. Irene let out another moan and arched her back a bit. 

Quickly, with his hands still bound, Sherlock reached for the thick rope around his ankles. With the combined strength of his hands and his legs, he pulled at the rope, swallowing a groan as fibres cut into the skin of his fingers and the scales of his ankles. The rope snapped audibly, but the humans were distracted. The deaf man struggled to pull away the younger sailor, who reached for Irene.

“She wants me, can’t you see?” he gasped. “She’s not even singing! She wants me!” 

As he spoke, Sherlock cut the ropes around his wrists with his talons. His stiff body protested the sudden liberation and for a moment the cramping of his muscles was so painful it left him immobile. But the deaf man was reaching for the whistle around his neck and Sherlock had no time to waste. Quickly, he scrambled to the front of his cell, his muscles screaming. The deaf man’s attention was caught by the sudden movement and he looked at Sherlock in shock and then horror. He attempted to step away from the bars, but his reflexes were no match for the Siren’s speed. With a motion too quick for the human to follow, Sherlock reached through a gap between bars, grabbed the human by the front of his shirt and yanked him forward. With a gasp and a resounding clang, the human’s head slammed into the metal bars and he slumped to the ground, unconscious. 

The young sailor jumped back from Sherlock, shocked out of his lust. Before he could do more, there was a flash of white from Mycroft’s cell and the young sailor was pulled against her bars. Sherlock looked in surprise to see Mycroft free of her bonds, both hands reaching between the bars to grab the human’s head. He stared at her with eyes wide with horror and he inhaled deeply, mouth open – Mycroft jerked him sharply with a precise motion. The human’s head twisted with a loud crack and the body crumpled. 

Mycroft pulled her arms back into her cell and slipped her fingers under her gag to remove it, dropping it with disgust and working her jaw carefully. “There,” she murmured, voice rough with disuse. She flicked her eyes at Sherlock. “Another corpse for your brave army doctor.”

Sherlock stiffened. He pulled off his own gag and flung it away.

“You’re getting slow,” Sherlock rumbled back at her, retrieving the whistle from around the guard’s neck and the key from his pocket. The former he placed around his own neck for lack of other ideas.

“Unlike you, I did not have a flawed cell bar at my disposal,” she replied haughtily. She reached through her bars to remove Irene’s gag. “Incompetence abounds, even on a king’s vessel. Unsurprising, really, amongst humans.” 

“Oh, do shut up, I’m sick of you already.” Sherlock slipped the key into the lock of his cell door and twisted. With a heavy clang, the bolt disengaged and Sherlock pushed the door open. 

“He is rather fit, this John Watson,” Irene commented as Sherlock exited his cell, wincing and stretching his muscles. He moved towards Irene’s door. “And blond, too. Lucky boy.” 

It was unclear whether Irene was referring to John Watson or to Sherlock, but regardless her comments were unwelcome. Sherlock froze where he held the key in front of the lock hole to Irene’s cell. His dark-feathered sister leered at him from where she was still bound on the floor. He returned her gaze evenly and then moved towards Mycroft’s cell without unlocking Irene’s. 

Irene chuckled but otherwise ignored his pettiness. “I’m impressed by your efficiency in freeing yourself, Mycroft,” she said, wiggling against her own bonds. Mycroft had several rope burns and her right shoulder was slightly swollen from the necessary dislocation. “All our practice paid off.”

Sherlock unlocked Mycroft’s cell and then threw her the key before crouching by the dead guard. 

“You were very thorough, and this lot is not half as good as you.” Mycroft’s voice was accompanied by clanks and creaks as she opened Irene’s cell. Sherlock removed a sword and a pistol from the corpse, leaving him with both hands occupied. He considered the human’s belt and trousers, seeing the advantage. “If you would let me tie you up for once, you would be more adept at freeing yourself, as well." 

“Or I can just wait for you to be a love and do it for me.”

Sherlock growled in irritation. “If you two do not cease your nattering we will be found out. Be silent.”

Mycroft frowned at him and Irene tutted. “No need to take out your sexual frustration on us, love. I’m sure we can bring your little pet along with us.”

Sherlock whirled to face Irene, who now stood with only red indents where her bonds used to be, and snarled. “You will not touch him.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Irene smirked. Sighing inwardly, Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration at his loss of control. He had quite obviously shown his hand. His sisters always tested his control.

Settling his expression to blankness, Sherlock knelt again to remove the dead man’s trousers. “The pockets will be useful,” he said flatly, hoping to ignore his outburst. Quickly, he pulled the trousers on, securing them with a cord around his hips. They were several inches too short and his sisters eyed him with amusement. 

“You look ridiculous,” Irene stated and Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. 

“Here,” he said bluntly, holding out the pistol with one hand and the sword with the other. 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “We have no need of human weapons.” With that she turned and left the brig, Irene close behind her.

Sherlock slipped the pistol into a pocket and scrambled up the steps after his sisters, talons clicking against the wood. Silently, they emerged onto the humans’ sleeping quarters, snuffles and snores greeting them. Quickly they continued up the steps that led to the deck. Fresh, salty air blew into Sherlock’s face and he inhaled deeply. The open air was glorious, and so, so close, moonlight glinting off Mycroft’s feathers and stars twinkling through the clouds. 

A muffled shout came from below them and Irene jerked in surprise. The shout came again, oddly stilted and wordless, and the sleeping sailors began to stir. 

“Go,” Sherlock hissed, and Irene hurried onto the deck after Mycroft, Sherlock emerging last. Below them, sounds of surprise and distress increased as the men awoke, and Sherlock realized his mistake.

Mycroft looked at the whistle hanging from Sherlock’s neck before meeting her brother’s gaze with a hard glare. “You did not kill the deaf man?” 

Sherlock’s lips thinned as he pressed them together and he looked away. No, he had not killed the human. _Another corpse for your brave army doctor_. He had been mistaken in thinking that deaf also meant mute. 

There was a cry of surprise as one of the few sailors manning the ship spotted them. “Sirens!” The man pulled out his sword. “They’ve escaped!” He ran towards them and Irene stepped forward.

Sherlock watched as she spread her red-tipped wings and lifted her chin proudly. Her breast swelled with her breath and she opened her mouth to release her Song. 

A choked gurgle was all that emerged. 

Irene’s eyes widened in shock, her wings sagging, but the sailor was still coming at her, sword aimed at her stomach. Sherlock dropped his sword and lunged, pushing her out of the way and knocking aside the sailor’s arm before striking him down with fists. 

Irene looked at Sherlock in horror, hands going to her throat. “Sherlock…”

A rumbling of footsteps came from below them. 

A choked cough came from Sherlock’s left and he turned to see Mycroft pale and open-mouthed in confusion and grief. 

The humans were converging on them now, emerging from below and around them, but for endless seconds the siblings were too stunned to move. 

“Come on, you spineless half-wits! Capture them!” 

The captain’s shout jolted Sherlock into action, and he turned in time to deflect the handle of a sword flying at his head. Another man tried to tangle him with rope but Sherlock danced out of the way, struggling to balance with his one functional wing. He threw the human hard against the ship’s railing and jerked to a standstill when he spotted his next attacker. 

John Watson emerged from what was likely the physician’s quarters, pistol in hand and posture military straight. He quickly took in the chaos around him and it was only when he spotted Sherlock, scant metres away from him, that his eyebrows raised in surprise. 

Sherlock did not want to fight John Watson, did not want to injure or maim his human. Instead he did what his instincts urged him to do. To sway his human and gain his loyalty, all Sherlock had to do was Sing.

Sherlock breathed deeply, but the familiar power that had always filled him, ever since he’d first learned his Song, was not there. As he exhaled, his vocal cords rebelled and froze, his breath getting caught in his throat. That link to Mummy’s ancient power was gone, out of his reach, and the sudden grief made him gag. In their long lives, every time the Sirens had used their Songs, destruction and death were the accompaniment. Now, when Sherlock wished to use his Song to stop violence instead, his voice deserted him. 

A keening wail caught Sherlock’s attention, and his head whipped around sharply to find its source. Irene, her face contorted with despair, fought two humans restraining her. As Sherlock watched, she broke free and ran towards the ship’s railing, wings flapping to give her more momentum. The humans likely assumed she was attempting escape, but leaving the ship was illogical. The Sirens knew that they lacked the endurance to make it back to their rocks. 

Irene planned to drown herself. 

_No_.

The thought was simple and overwhelming, a denial so pure Sherlock did not stop to think. 

“Irene!” he shouted. He moved to grab her, but strong arms were wrapping around him, pulling him back and down and causing him to stumble. John Watson’s scent surrounded him and Sherlock’s struggles were stopped by the press of cool metal to his back. 

“Stop,” the human rasped. “Just stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Just as Irene reached the railing, she was tackled from the side. The human pushed her to the deck and within moments Irene was once again restrained, her hitching sobs muffled. 

Without their Songs, it was hopeless, and Sherlock sagged against John Watson, physician and captor. Though Sherlock relaxed, John Watson did not loosen his grip, though he was careful not to disturb Sherlock’s injured wing. A small hand slipped into the pocket of his trousers to remove the stolen pistol. Within moments, other sailors came to John Watson’s aid, and the Sirens were dragged to the middle of the deck and forced to their knees. The captain stood in front of them, his gaze appraising. Only the quivering of his hands revealed his nervousness. 

Irene’s head was downturned and Mycroft appeared pale.

“You did not Sing,” the captain stated. “Why?” 

The crew was silent as they waited for a response. When none was offered, the captain drew his sword and placed the blade under Sherlock’s chin, forcing Sherlock’s head up.

“You will answer me.”

The captain’s voice was hard, his eyes cold, and John Watson’s grip tightened where his hands were placed on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock met the captain’s gaze impassively. He would tell this human nothing. 

“I believe they were unable, sir,” John Watson spoke up, a slight breathlessness to his voice. 

The captain raised his eyes above Sherlock’s head.

“What makes you think that, doctor?”

“When I approached him, he attempted to Sing, but seemed to choke instead, sir. Perhaps captivity has weakened them.” 

_Wrong_ , Sherlock thought. Captivity had not weakened them. In fact, captivity had given them time to heal, to recover their strength. Three nights and they were nearly back to… 

Sherlock tensed with realisation. Three nights and their bodies were nearly healed, but in a way John Watson was right. During that time, their connection to their rocks had weakened, unnoticeable until they had attempted to use their powers. The _captivity_ had not weakened them. The _distance_ had.

The captain looked at the Sirens, Irene weeping silently, Mycroft and Sherlock blank-faced, and seemed to realize he would get nothing out of them. “Perhaps,” he conceded, removing the unsteady sword from beneath Sherlock’s chin. John Watson’s grip relaxed on Sherlock’s shoulders. “As you can see, men,” the captain said loudly, “these creatures are slippery as eels and devious as snakes. Fortunately they are no match for King’s men.” Hoots and murmurs of agreement met this statement. “Have their feet wrapped in burlap sacks and imprison them separately.” As the captain spoke, he slowly backed away from the Sirens. “Place this one in the brig,” he pointed to Irene. “This one in the hold,” he pointed to Mycroft. “This one…” he looked to Sherlock, then over Sherlock’s head. A cruel twist appeared on his lips. “Dr. Watson, I’m sure you can accommodate this creature in your sickbay.”

“Aye, sir,” John Watson replied immediately. “But where will my other patients go?”

“I am certain we will find room for them elsewhere on this ship,” the captain replied. “Stamford!”

“Aye, sir,” the man replied, stepping forward.

“You have some medical experience, do you not? You will assist in triage while Dr. Watson secures his new charge.”

Stamford sent a worried glance at John Watson before nodding to the captain.

“Get to it, lads!” 

The men scrambled to carry out the orders, and Sherlock was only able to share a glance with his sisters before they were separated and dragged away. 

“And where are the guards that let the Sirens escape? Bring them to me,” the captain yelled as John Watson led Sherlock to the sickbay. The pistol pressed into Sherlock’s side was meant to encourage cooperation, but Sherlock would not have fought anyway. He felt dazed, almost numb, and as he stumbled along he felt as though he were in a dream. Mummy had always warned Sherlock never to leave the rocks, their safe haven. All her warnings drifted through his head and he wondered if she had known what would happen if the Sirens left. Sherlock had always thought it was his mother’s blood in his veins that gave the siblings their ability to Sing, but now he realized how faulty his hypothesis had been. 

John Watson nudged Sherlock through a doorway and into the sickbay, lit by candle and moonlight through a small window. The physician followed behind before closing and locking the door behind them. Then he sat on the small cot against the wall and put his head in his hands, the pistol next to him on the cot.

Sherlock stared at him, mind blank. For several moments the two of them were still and silent.

The room was small, crowded with the cot and a small desk with a chair. What medical tools that were out were few, some Sherlock recognized, others he did not. He made a mental note to ask John Watson about them. After their failed escape attempt, it seemed likely that the Siren would be here for the duration of the voyage.

John Watson rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, and Sherlock suddenly noticed how odd this was. John Watson was not even watching Sherlock, was sitting lower than the Siren in a way that made him vulnerable. Sherlock, though weaponless, still had his strength and his talons, but his human appeared completely unconcerned. Sherlock could easily, so easily attack the man now, incapacitate or kill him before the soldier could even think to reach for the pistol. With his superior strength, he could push the human to the floor and take him, right here. As escape from the ship was becoming less and less likely, Sherlock might as well take what he wanted while he could. And he wanted this human very much. 

Sherlock did not move. 

At last John Watson raised his head and gazed at Sherlock, eyes slowly raking over the Siren’s shadow-wrapped body. Sherlock forced himself not to fidget under the scrutiny, feeling oddly self-conscious with his debilitated wing and tattered trousers. The stolen whistle was cold and awkward against his sternum.

“Beautiful,” John Watson murmured quietly, likely not expecting the Siren to hear.

Sherlock blinked in shock. The comment was so unexpected that for several moments he was unable to respond in any way. He forced himself to observe, to engage his brain. John Watson’s pupils were dilated, but the room was dimly lit, making the fact inconclusive. However, the human’s breathing was elevated. The signs of attraction were small, but present, and Sherlock was hugely gratified. This would make things so much easier. 

For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had desired to escape the rocks. Even now, living with the consequences, the thought of returning to the monotonous, unchanging islands made his entire being recoil. But his sisters…he could not force them into the world he had craved. His imaginings of exploration and freedom had never included them, and upon seeing their reactions to the loss of their Songs, he was even more convinced that they belonged back there, on the rocks. He had to return them to their birthplace or surely they would wither and die. 

Sherlock tilted his head as he stared at his human. This competent, strong human he had desired from the first sighting. Seduction was not a tool Sherlock often bothered with, though he knew how to wield it with some proficiency. He was not unaware of the allures of his body and how to use them to his advantage, but in this case, the superficial attractions of the body would not be enough. Sherlock could not use his Song to manipulate, but he had other ways to charm and impress.

John Watson cleared his throat, apparently bemused by Sherlock’s unwavering stare. He pursed his lips and lifted his chin. “What’s your name then?” he asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. What an unexpected question. Dull though, as Sherlock already knew the answer.

“I know you can talk. I heard you call for ‘Irene’,” the human continued. 

The memory of Irene’s attempted suicide caused Sherlock's chest to tighten painfully. But brooding over what had almost been would not help his sisters, and Sherlock forced the dread and guilt to the back of his mind. It was time to impress.

“Your wife or the war, which was it?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Translation:  
> "What's wrong? What can I do?"  
> "Humans require fresh water and food to survive, my dear."
> 
> Feedback is good for the writer's soul! 
> 
> Please subscribe to this work or my account if you would like a notification for updates.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You view everything through a soldier’s eyes, Dr. Watson. This is not a war.” 
> 
> “Is it not?” 
> 
> For another moment Hale was silent, eyes stormy. Suddenly he stood and walked around the desk to open the cabin’s door, his dismissal clear. As John passed him, he was stopped with a firm hand on his bad shoulder, and he repressed a flinch. Hale leaned in close, his breath on John’s ear. “Then you had better choose your side. And you had better choose carefully.” 
> 
>  
> 
> Johnlock sexy times within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are lots of little hints of the approximate time period, but I'm no historian - kindly overlook any inaccuracies. 
> 
> Also warning for some drug abuse.

The sickbay was small, perhaps slightly smaller than John’s minuscule one-room bedsit in London, and it seemed incongruous that its dull walls could contain the incredible being that stood in its center. The Siren’s intensity and beauty filled the room, and it was hard to believe that this was an earthly creature, and John’s captive to boot. With his penetrating gaze and coal-black wings, one quivering and the other wrapped in bandages, the Siren seemed more suited to storybooks of Greek Gods and heroes than on this ship. 

John knew the Siren was dangerous, had witnessed and sewn-up the carnage he could inflict, yet as John sat on the thinly padded cot and gazed up at man towering over him, he did not experience fear. Instead he felt regret: regret for the increasing number of injured crew, regret for the distress this entire endeavor had caused, even regret that the Sirens had not escaped. It was clear to John that this was an intelligent being, not some mindless beast that needed to be captured and contained for amusement. 

Granted, that intelligence likely made the Siren all the more deadly.

As it was, John felt uncomfortable with continuously thinking of him as ‘The Siren’ or ‘The Creature’. Surely he had a name. But when John asked, the Siren simply appeared confused, as though no one before had ever wished to know it. Instead, he replied with a question of his own, and it shocked John to the core: 

“Your wife or the war, which was it?” 

They were the first true words John had heard him speak, and John felt his eyes widen at both the rumbling baritone and the words themselves.

“Sorry, what?”

“Which was it that led to you coming aboard His Majesty’s _Defiance_? Obviously your sister aided in the actual process, but she was not the root of your decision. So, your wife or the war?”

John could only stare, feeling devastatingly exposed. John was a practical man, had never believed any tales of witchcraft and soothsayers, but nor had he ever entertained thoughts of Sirens. Was it possible that the creature in front of him had some ability to see into his mind, to peruse his thoughts at will? How else could he know these things? How else could he know of Mary, sweet Mary, or his nearly fatal experiences in Pollilur? 

The Siren sighed, a surprisingly human sound. “No I cannot see your thoughts, your face is only very expressive. Moreover, it is really quite simple if you know what to look –”

As he spoke, he stepped closer, perhaps to better explain himself, and bumped his broken wing against the desk. Pain cut off his voice and crumpled his face, and John instantly jumped up in doctorly concern, his previous distress forgotten. 

“Be cautious! You wing is not yet healed.” John pulled out the chair from under the desk.

“Obviously,” the Siren gritted out, but John just gripped his upper arms and steered him to sit in the chair, which could accommodate his immense black wings.

The left wing was healthy and whole, glossy feathers badly ruffled and blanketing what was undoubtedly an unbelievably strong limb. The scent that wafted into John’s nostrils was subtle yet intoxicating, a unique musk that was familiar after having treated the Siren several times. John felt an urge to stroke the wing and smooth down those disorderly feathers, but forced himself into a strictly professional mind frame. He turned his attention to the right wing, and began unwrapping the white bandage.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reprimand the Siren for possibly further damaging his wing with their escape attempt, but he realized how appalling those words would be, especially from the Siren’s captor, which John surely was. He could not help but remember his own desperation, as he had lain upon the dirt with a spear protruding from his shoulder and had still tried to drag himself to cover. 

As the bandage fell away, it revealed the distorted wing beneath. Despite his best attempts at properly setting and stabilizing the unfamiliar bones, the wing was healing poorly. The bones were knitting themselves back together with supernatural speed, but not in the exact right positions, and evidently the limb pained the Siren greatly. At this point there was very little John could do, and he held in a sigh as he re-wrapped the wing to immobilize it, trying to avoid bending any feathers. He moved around in front of the Siren to look at his unblemished face, no trace of the purple bruise that had marred his features just that morning. Ice-blue eyes met his unflinchingly, flicked over his expression, and returned. 

“I’ll not fly again.”

It was not a question, but John shook his head anyway. “I’m sorry.”

The Siren continued to scrutinize his expression, but seemed to believe his sincerity, and looked away finally. “Useless expression. Humans say it when there’s nothing else they can do.”

At this point, all John could do was relieve his pain, and he looked towards the locked cupboard that contained morphine. He could administer some to the Siren, but the narcotic was running low. John had counted the excessive supplies before boarding the ship, but perhaps he had made a mistake -- 

“You counted correctly.”

John’s eyes snapped back to the Siren’s, his gaze caught immediately. “Pardon?” 

“Your morphine supplies, you counted them correctly.” 

“How could you –” 

A brief knock on the door sounded before Stamford let himself in, and John jumped back guiltily, realizing how close he stood leaning over the Siren. The usually affable man had a drawn expression, and in his hand were two thick burlap sacks. He froze briefly when he saw the Siren sitting aware and unbound. 

“Watson?”

“Stamford, those won’t be necessary, surely?” John commented, eyeing the burlap sacks. As far as he was concerned, the Sirens had been restrained far too much.

Stamford’s eyes moved away from the Siren warily to look at John. “Captain’s orders.”

John pursed his lips and held out his hand. “Let me, then.”

Stamford shook his head. “Your medical expertise is needed on deck. I am capable with bandages, but you are more practiced with needle and thread than I.”

John looked away. “With the nerve damage you know it would be better for you to do it.”

Stamford stepped forward and gripped John’s left wrist. John looked at his friend in surprise, but Stamford was observing John’s dominant hand. “Looks dead steady to me,” he commented.

John looked at his hand and was shocked to see that it was, indeed, perfectly still, no trace of the tremor that had plagued him since being invalided. The unpleasant tingling that had him regularly clenching his hand in a fist was absent as well. When he looked back to Stamford, he was not sure what his expression was, but the other man grinned.

“There’s a lad. Now you go do what you do best and I’ll take over here, hm?”

John nodded, the corners of his lips twitching up. He looked to the Siren, who was watching their exchange curiously, before moving to the door. “Don’t tie those too tight,” he said to Stamford, looking at the burlap sacks. “And you ought to rest,” he told the Siren. “Your body needs its strength to heal.”

The Siren made a face at him, his nose crinkling, and John chuckled, feeling very lighthearted indeed. He could feel Stamford’s gaze burning the back of his head as he left the sickbay. 

His good mood faded as he treated his patients. Seeing the results of the Sirens’ most recent attack was especially disturbing, as John was now aware of the intelligence that commanded their violence. With their talons and inhuman strength, it seemed that the crew’s thorough preparation and luck were the only things stopping the Sirens from slaughtering the lot of them. John could hardly blame the Sirens’ attempts – any captive in their right mind would do just about anything to escape – yet as John finished the twenty-third stitch on one of the three gashes dissecting the Boatswain’s chest, he was very glad that Stamford had covered the Siren’s clawed feet. In sickbay alone with the creature, Stamford had nought but his knife and his speed to defend himself against an attack. Though John had not seen Stamford in near nearly seven years – when his friend had abandoned school for the freedom of the sea – John would be bereft indeed were he to lose what felt like his only ally on-board. John reminded himself that the Siren was an intelligent creature, and so surely knew as well as John that killing his guard would be illogical, ultimately getting him no closer to escape. Dismissing the injured, there were still twenty-four able bodied sailors to overwhelm and subdue the captives. Not to mention, with his broken wing, the Siren had nowhere to escape to but the life-boats. 

A large shadow blocked the sunlight suddenly.

“Doctor.”

John looked up from where he was retrieving bandages to see William Hale observing him. “Captain,” he acknowledged, still finding it strange to address his brother-in-law as such. 

“See me in my cabin when you are finished here,” he ordered, looking down his crooked nose at John.

“Aye, sir.”

Hale glanced at the angry red lacerations on his Boatswain’s left pectoral and grimaced. “Your courage is noted, Boatswain,” he praised, nodding at the man whose sweat was still cooling from the pain of the stitches. He had refused morphine and had sat still as needle and thread had tugged at his flesh. 

“Thank ye, cap’n,” he rumbled. 

Hale departed and John finished securing the bandages. After convincing his patient to eschew physical labour or risk tearing his stitches, John made his way to the captain’s cabin. Mild apprehension had his stomach in knots. Though John did not know Harry’s husband well, they had not seen eye to eye on many things recently. 

When Harry had begged John to get away from London for some time, John had been in a bad place. Recently invalided, then widowed, he had been drowning in self-pity and despair. His dominant hand shook, his knee was dodgy, and he could no longer practice as a surgeon. He was crippled, wifeless and jobless at thirty, without purpose and swiftly gambling himself into poverty. He kept his service pistol as his constant companion and ignored all letters from his sister.

He had been returning from one of his usual clubs, pockets empty and knuckles and face bruised, when he had spotted his sister sitting alone on the shadowed steps to his bachelor’s bedsit. 

“Harry!” he exclaimed, rushing to her. It was night and his flat was in a frankly awful part of town, where no lady should be alone.

She jumped up as he approached, her eyes wide and horrified. “Oh, John, what has happened to you?”

Her words had him freezing in front of her. This was why he had not wanted to see his sister. He did not want to answer inane questions, did not want to share his private turmoil. He would not speak of the wretched events that had led him to this point, could not. Not even with his sister, who should be at home with her husband, like a proper married woman, not out harassing her brother. 

“Very little,” John replied sharply, stepping past her to unlock his door. “What are you doing here alone?”

“Well, you won’t answer my letters! What else was I to do?”

She followed John into his room, which smelt of mold and contained little more than a bed, a table, one chair and a wash basin.

John stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face her. He did not offer her a seat. “You could have respected the wish that my silence implied.”

Harry stared at him, eyes wide and pained, and her lip trembled. John scowled and looked away. “What do you want, Harry?”

“You’re the only one that calls me that, you know,” she said abruptly.

John stared resolutely at the rust-coloured stain on the wall by the door. “What?”

“When I told Mum and Dad that I hated the name Harriet, that I’d prefer Harry, they told me to stop being ridiculous, to act more ladylike. My friends laughed at me. William thought I was playing cute. But you didn’t hesitate. ‘You can be whomever you want’, you told me.”

 _Makes no difference to me whether you’re Harriet or Harry_ , he’d told her. As a child, he hadn’t understood his older sister’s request, but hadn’t seen the harm in it. As he got older he saw the way she rebelled against their parents’ wishes, dismissed society’s expectations of a lady, laughed at attentions from young men, and he thought he understood better. 

Her bringing that up reminded John of their childhood, when they had been closer and carefree. When Harry’s dresses had been as mud-stained as John’s trousers and laughter had filled their home. For years Harry had been bigger than John, and she had stood up for her younger brother, small for his age, on many occasions. 

“I want to help, John. Let me help,” she pleaded.

John took a deep breath and looked at his sister, to whom he had not been close since she had married, whom he had not seen since their mother’s funeral, but who was reaching out to him now. “There is nothing you can do to help, Harry,” he mumbled, his throat tight. “But thank you,” he choked out.

She stepped towards him, her face drawn in lines of sympathy and pity, but he jerked away, bumping into his bed. She stopped where she was, lowering her arms back to her sides and trying to hide the hurt his rejection caused. They stood silently, staring at each other, awkward and unsure.

“You need to leave the city for a while,” Harry said at last. “It’s suffocating you. And this flat is godawful, John.”

He looked away, studying the gray walls, silently agreeing. “Where will I go?” he asked, rhetorically he thought.

“William has received a commission from the King. The ship leaves tomorrow morning. I will be accompanying him.”

John threw a puzzled glance at her. This was all very exciting for them, but what did it have to do with John?

“Come with us, brother,” Harry offered, and John stared at her, gobsmacked. “Surely your skills will be valuable on a ship and I am confident I can convince William to take you on-board.”

John was full of questions – what was the commission? How long would they be at sea? What could Hale have possibly done to warrant the King’s attention? But as he looked around at his depressing flat, and thought of his empty life, dwindling savings and the pistol at his back, he realized none of those things mattered. John was stumbling blind in the dark, and ahead of him, Harry had just lit a candle. It was up to John whether he followed his sister on a path to something, if not better, at least different, or whether he continued alone until he inevitably tripped and could not get back up. With a spear in his shoulder and his vision going dark, John had begged God for his life. Now, he would take matters into his own hands. This was his choice.

“Alright, I’ll come.”

As John walked across the deck now, he recalled that he’d joined the crew without any idea of what he’d been signing up for. When he had found out they were to be Siren hunting, he had thought they’d all been mad. Surely he had doomed himself to a fruitless search at sea for eternity. He had regardless been glad to see Stamford among the crew, and had been too busy to wallow in his grief, having to quickly learn the necessary hand signs and plans of attack. He’d done all this with bemused tolerance, not expecting any of it to come to any use.

How wrong he had been. 

The door to the captain’s cabin was ajar, so John slowly pushed it further open and let himself in. Hale was leaning back in his extravagant chair, booted-feet propped on his carved-wood desk, a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid held delicately in his hand. 

“Ridiculous what the King’s good word will get you, hm?” he asked, lifting his drink up in a toast before taking a sip. “Please have a seat.” He indicated the padded chair in front of his desk.

John would prefer to stand – faster to escape that way – but did not want to start this conversation by offending the captain. Instead he opted to leave the door partly ajar, as he’d found it, and warily took a seat. He refused Hale’s offer of a drink. 

“You’re a practical man, John,” the captain began, and John bristled slightly at the intimate use of his Christian name. “And very loyal. When the King’s army was closed to you, you decided to serve him by joining my crew.”

Face stony, John met Hale’s gaze. “Loyalty was not foremost on my mind at the time of my decision.”

“No, no, of course not. Rather, I’m sure your pathetic life was foremost on your mind, hm?”

John narrowed his eyes. “Was there a point to this meeting, Captain?”

“The point is, I believe that, thanks to Harriet, we both know more about each other than was ever intended, wouldn’t you agree?” As he spoke, he lowered his glass to the desk, his feet to the floor, and leaned over the desk, fingers intertwined. 

“If you are referring to the tale of your shipwreck several months ago, my sister told me only the most basic details.” It rankled that Harry had divulged John’s various hardships to Hale, but he guessed it was expected that a woman have no secrets from her husband. The only secrets between John and Mary had been of John’s making and to this day he regretted the pain he had caused her. 

Hale’s lip quirked in a way that did not express amusement. “My tale, yes. I’ve seen the way you treat the beasts we’ve caught, and I feel it wise to disabuse you of the notion that these are beings deserving of our respect or kindness.”

“All beings are deserving of some level of respect,” John retorted. 

“Perhaps.” Hale leaned back in his seat again and reached for his glass. He swallowed the remainder of the amber liquid before replacing the glass and crossing his arms. “The day was a rough one, high winds and choppy waves, made for difficult sailing.” John leaned back in his seat, rearranging his expression to one of polite interest. “We were a simple merchant vessel of thirty men, myself a sailor among them. The only sounds were the sea against the ship, the billowing sails, the sounds of the crew’s toils. We were singing a shanty for morale and rhythm when we heard it, drifting on the wind. The sound we heard…it is indescribable, Watson. The voices were haunting, the music simultaneously seductive, joyful and heart-wrenching. It seemed that my very soul was being led from my body and all I could do was follow it.”

Despite himself, John found himself interested, and watched as Hale’s eyes clouded in memory. 

“It seemed a sort of haze overcame us all. Like moths to flame the music called to us. One man threw himself overboard, so desperate was his need, and the rest of us did nothing to save him, took barely any notice. Without thought or discussion we changed course, following the voices that promised us everything we desired.” Hale paused to pour himself another half glass from the decanter on his desk. With a slightly shaky hand he rose the glass to his lips for a large swallow. “Soon, ahead of us, we spotted an agglomeration of rocky islets and knew that this was our ultimate destination. The music had us so enchanted that worries of shipwreck never entered our minds. With proximity to the rocks our desperation only mounted. Upon the cliff edges there were three beings, more glorious than I could comprehend, and it seemed to me that their wings were open to embrace us. The birdwoman with russet wings caught my eye then, and instantly I was ensnared – I was hers.” With another gulp Hale finished his drink. “The ship struck the rocks then. The sound was horrible – wood rending itself to pieces, the hull crashing against rocks. With the help of the wind and waves she tore herself apart. Some men drowned. Others attempted to climb the cliff sides to reach our enchanters, whose voices still crooned promises to us, only to fall to the rocks below. Two of the creatures had dark wings, and they left their perches to snatch men from the sea or the rock face.”

John frowned, thinking of his Siren and the female one with black wings. When Harry had recounted to John that Hale’s ship had been attacked by Sirens, that Hale had escaped only by luck and his strength, he had not believed the tale and had thought sea-induced madness was more likely. Now, watching the man’s expressions as he recalled his own trauma, the tale seemed much more real. 

“I myself was caught in the wreckage of the ship. A wooden plank kept me afloat, but I was tangled in the rigging, and no matter how I struggled to reach the source of the music I could not break free. To this day I know not why I was spared when the rest of the crew was not.” He paused for a moment, remembering those that had been lost. John empathized, remembering the many brothers-in-arms he himself had watched perish. “The worst was when the singing stopped. It was like a blow to the face, reality slamming back into focus. At first I did not understand what had happened, my memories seen through a drunken haze. And then the screaming started.” What little colour had been in his complexion faded, and John watched carefully in case the man fainted. “I’m sure you know what it is to hear your friends cry out in pain and anguish,” Hale met John’s gaze with a burning intensity, “but to hear the laughter of their tormentors –” 

He broke off with a gasp, eyes wet, and John leaned towards him, hand extended to comfort. “Hale,” he began.

“No! You must know.” Knuckles white, Hale gripped the edge of his desk and leant closer to John. “They laughed, Watson. Girlish laughter over the sounds of bones crunching and flesh tearing. And the other, the man – I heard a low voice speaking, making claims and asking questions calmly like nothing was happening, like a slaughter was an everyday occurrence. Clearly, I recall the words ‘your calluses indicate excessive writing’. Nonsensical words, and yet still I can hear them.” He shook his head to dispel the memory. “I could hear all this and could do nothing. The crew were all drowned or captured, and I dared not draw attention to myself. The only blessing was that trapped as I was at the base of the cliffs, where discarded old bones lay in heaps, I could not see the carnage above, and the beasts could not see me. And it was as they were distracted with their feeding – because surely that is what it was – that I freed myself of the ropes and swam.”

John sat very still, mind whirring and horrified. Words in a baritone rumbled in his head ( _Your wife or the war, which was it?_ ) making brilliantly accurate claims. How would Hale know to include that detail, a low voice speaking of calluses, were his tale a farce? He had had no opportunity on-board to hear the Siren speak, except for perhaps that one shout amidst the chaos of their escape attempt. 

“I’m sure you know the rest,” Hale continued, voice rough. “Truly I am blessed, for I was picked up by a passing vessel before I tired and drowned.”

The two men were silent for a moment, John trying to fathom all he had heard. Absently he pulled on the chain around his neck, twisting until the clasp was at his nape. 

“Perhaps,” Hale began suddenly, “it will comfort you to know that the beasts will no longer be a threat, as they are being delivered to the king himself, as per his orders.”

John looked at him in surprise. “What use could the king possibly have for them?”

Hale shrugged slightly, slowly recovering his composure. “Whatever he sees fit. The women are exotically beautiful, after all. Their voices beyond compare.”

In his experiences, John had seen and participated in much bloodshed, had killed without remorse because he had believed it had been the best option. And yet, he could not abide the idea of slavery – of a sentient creature being completely and non-consensually forced to submit to another. “Surely for what you claim they have done they deserve incarceration, execution even,” John wondered. 

“Death would be too good for them, I believe.” Hale had recovered his confident captain’s persona and was observing his nails idly. “And a waste, when such a species ought to be studied and dissected, wouldn’t you say? No, I am satisfied with what their future likely holds. And once I have successfully completed my duty, the rewards will guarantee that Harriet will want for nothing for the rest of her days. That should please you, hm?”

“They’ve lost the ability to Sing,” John stated quickly, unable to ignore the feeling of _wrongness_ in his gut. “This reduces their value, surely.”

Hale frowned at John. “Perhaps it was a ruse, their sudden muteness.”

“No,” John shook his head. “From a tactical perspective, they should have used all the tools at their disposal to escape. They have no reinforcements, no one to save them. That was their best and only chance. They were relying on their ability to control us with their Songs, but their plan failed. It was no ruse.” 

With narrowed eyes Hale studied John. “You view everything through a soldier’s eyes, Dr. Watson. This is not a war.” 

“Is it not?” 

For another moment Hale was silent, eyes stormy. Suddenly he stood and walked around the desk to open the cabin’s door, his dismissal clear. As John passed him, he was stopped with a firm hand on his bad shoulder, and he repressed a flinch. Hale leaned in close, his breath on John’s ear. “Then you had better choose your side. And you had better choose carefully.” 

John stepped onto the deck and the door clicked shut behind him. For a moment he stood, letting his heartrate slow and steady. Dawn was fast approaching and he felt simultaneously exhausted and restless. He hadn’t slept properly since they’d captured the Sirens, but he knew that quieting his mind would be impossible with all that he had learned. He would relieve Stamford, he decided, as John would not be able to sleep anyhow.

Was it possible that Hale’s story was true? Upon first hearing of murderous Sirens from Harry, John had assumed the tale to be the ravings of a shipwreck survivor, but now he was not so sure. After all, Hale _had_ found the Sirens and John had seen firsthand the damage they could cause. But John had also seen the intelligence of the Sirens, and it seemed impossible to John that these beautiful sentient creatures, two of them of the fairer sex, could be the same as the sadistic cannibals Hale’s story depicted. 

John knocked lightly on the sickbay door before entering, and met the sight of Stamford seated and reading, and the Siren on his back on the cot, apparently asleep with his large wings tucked in close to his body. John raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“He was meditating or something,” Stamford murmured, closing his book. “Told me I was ‘thinking too loudly’. Think he zenned himself right to sleep by accident.” 

John snorted softly in amusement, looking at the Siren whose head was turned to the side, hands resting on his chest as though they had fallen there. He looked oddly innocent, and very young, and John was so tired he wished he could join him in Morpheus’s embrace. 

“I’ll take the next watch,” John offered.

“You sure? You look done in.” 

John nodded. “I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” 

Stamford frowned but nodded, and got up, taking his book. “You have your pistol?”

“Yes, and my knife.” His pistol was a comforting weight at his back, while the knife was in his boot. The latter was better for combat in close quarters. 

“Good.” Stamford placed a hand on John’s right shoulder as he passed and quietly left sickbay.

John took the vacated seat and let his eyes roam over the Siren, his body cast in the candlelight Stamford had been using to read. The Siren’s torso was bare and nearly hairless, his pale skin smooth and sporadically dotted with beauty marks, the hollow of his stomach rising and falling slowly with his breath. His long legs were wrapped in the trousers he had acquired and John’s eye couldn’t help but be drawn to the outline of his cock. The material was thin and offered only the most basic modesty. John had already seen the Siren nude in the brig, and yet somehow this teasing hint of the Siren’s manhood was even more tantalizing. Unconsciously licking his lips, John forced his gaze away and spotted the thick burlap sacks wrapped around the Siren’s talons like slippers, thin rope keeping them secured around his ankles. Despite his earlier dislike of the idea, John found himself grateful for the extra protection, however flimsy, from those sharp claws. 

Finished his perusal, John returned his gaze to the Siren’s face and was surprised to see pale eyes gazing back.

“John Watson,” the Siren greeted, voice rough from sleep.

Caught out in his staring, John crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, adopting a casual pose. “Seeing as we’re practically roommates, I think just ‘Watson’ will do.” 

“Watson,” the Siren tried, turning his head to look at the ceiling. He brought his palms together over his chest and pressed the tips of his index fingers to his pouting bottom lip. He hummed. “Watson. I think I prefer ‘John’.”

John blinked. “Pardon?” 

Sharp eyes flicked to his without his head turning. “If I’m to call you by only one name I’d like the choice of which one. I shall call you John, John.”

John stared, wondering how a creature that they’d found on a rock in the ocean could speak like such a posh prat. “Calling me by my surname would be more appropriate, actually.”

“Appropriate,” he scoffed. “I could not care less for your dull social customs, John.”

This was not an argument worth having, John decided. “I’d ask for your name again, but I’m starting to believe you like to be mysterious,” he muttered, perhaps a bit more bitterly than intended. Somehow this creature knew all about him while John knew little more than stories and conjecture.

A small wrinkle appeared between the Siren’s eyebrows and he sat up, careful of his right wing. “What’s happened? You’ve learnt something new, something upsetting.” 

“How can you tell?” John exclaimed, but received only a dismissive wave of the hand.

“Unlike humans, I don’t just see, I observe. What is it?”

Wondering how to broach the topic, John licked his lips. The Siren’s eyes darted to the movement and back up, and he raised an eyebrow in query. 

Feeling a little flustered, John burst out what was on his mind. “Is it true that you kill humans for sport? Or that you eat people?” Out loud it seemed so ridiculous, but he forced himself to hold the other’s gaze and waited expectantly. He wasn’t sure what he expected – anger perhaps – but it certainly wasn’t the exasperated sigh he received.

“Fear of the unknown – all humans suffer from it.”

“I prefer to reserve judgement until after I have the facts,” John retorted. “Unfortunately, in your case all I have are the behaviour I’ve _observed_ and the word of my captain.”

The Siren’s gaze was heavy and considering. “Your captain is highly disturbed by some event in his past.”

“According to him that event was you.”

“I can make no claims as to what he experienced but I have never seen that man before,” the Siren assured. “And my memory is very long.” 

Eyes flinty, John leaned forward to rest his elbows on his splayed knees. “What would have happened to us, to this ship, if we had not used the wax to block our ears?” He recalled the way Timmy, tied to the mast with his ears open, had fought against his bonds as though his life had depended on it. What if John, who had hated the itch of the wax, had decided that day to forgo the precaution? Would he have thrown himself overboard and likely to his death? When the Sirens had attacked the ship – and John recalled vividly the immense wings that had blocked out the sun and the talons that had aimed for his face – had that been a defense against the infringement of territory, or had the Sirens had something more sinister in mind?

John was beginning to suspect he knew the answers, but he wanted to hear the Siren’s perspective. There were two sides to every story. 

Those pale eyes were flicking over John’s face, taking in every detail. John was sure his expression was accusatory or suspicious, angry even, but the Siren did not appear overly perturbed or defensive. Instead he appeared…calculating. He looked away then, to the gradually lightening window of the room, and the light in his eyes seemed to dull a bit, the muscles in his face relaxing. He was suddenly pensive, and perhaps a bit melancholy. “I have never left those rocks before, John,” he began. “I am older than you can comprehend, and for an eternity we’ve been trapped there.” He glanced at John briefly. “It’s all we know.” He looked back to the window and pulled his wrapped feet onto the cot to wrap his arms around his knees. “Mummy never explained to us what our Songs would do. She said they were for protection against those who would do us harm.” 

“Mummy?” 

“Mother, our mother. For the entirety of our childhood she was our sole teacher and role model. Our Songs were the last things she taught us.”

John could hear the emphasis on the word ‘songs’, the weight it carried.

“She told us that the islands were our home, and that we must know how to protect ourselves if they were ever found. We were twelve years old the first time we saw a ship. We had little idea of what it was, we had nothing but Mummy’s tales to know what to expect –”

“Sorry,” John interrupted, “but you were alone? I thought you said your mother –”

The Siren made an impatient sound. “We were fully grown within ten years of our birth. It is not important.”

John frowned but kept silent.

“As I was saying, we knew not what to expect, but it was new and exciting. For me anyway. Irene was afraid, and Mycroft has always been a stickler for following the rules.” He made a face like he’d smelled something foul. “Had we done nothing the ship would likely have passed us by none the wiser, but Mycroft kept reminding us about what Mummy had said and Irene panicked. She Sang and we did not know what to do, so Mycroft and I joined her. And when we Sang… Oh, John, you cannot imagine the power that consumed us.”

As he spoke, his eyes were bright with the memory, his cheeks faintly flushed, his body tense. He was stunning and John could not look away.

“It became addictive, like a drug to us, impossible to resist. That first time, we expected our Songs to repel what we were certain were humans – horrible, dangerous creatures as Mummy had warned us. We were shocked when the ship came towards us instead. And by then the humans had spotted us, so we couldn’t stop. They looked so ridiculous, with their layers of clothing.” The Siren smiled slightly at the memory, but his eyes had developed a sheen. He paused and his smile faded, his expression settling into grim lines. “We couldn’t stop. The ship hit the rocks, John.” 

The creature looked at him then, his eyes pleading. John felt a jolt, both at the sudden show of emotion and at the sound of his name in that rumbling tone. 

“Some of them, the humans…they drowned, but some climbed the rocks to get to us. We were afraid. And hungry, so hungry. There was never enough to eat.” 

The tears spilled over then, leaving shiny tracks along that sculpted face, and John stood and stepped forward immediately, helpless against the impulse to comfort. The Siren gripped John’s hand in a warm grip and pulled him closer, head tilted back to peer up at him earnestly. John felt lost in those glistening, pale eyes, mesmerized by their ice-blue depths. 

“It was a nightmare, John.” He pulled John closer so his shins hit the cot and their knees brushed. “But you’ve saved me. You’ve taken me away from there.” The Siren’s low voice seemed to vibrate in John’s bones and he realized that he had leaned closer without noticing. They were so close John could feel the Siren’s breath on his lips, and his tongue darted out automatically. Pale eyes flicked down to follow the movement and then dilated pupils met his. 

“Will you tell me your name?” John whispered, reaching out to brush a tear from a warm cheek.

The Siren hesitated, eyes dancing back and forth between John’s. “Sherlock,” he murmured, voice rough. 

“Sherlock,” John repeated, feeling the name in his mouth. He leaned in closer and just before the Siren’s eyes slid closed, something changed in his expression.

Chastely their lips met, and John froze, tasting salt. Sherlock pressed closer, full lips parting lightly, but John pulled back and opened his eyes, looking at the man in front of him warily. With heavy eyelids that obscured pupils blown wide, and warmth giving colour to those pale cheeks, he was the picture of longing. But John could not deny what he had seen, what had flashed through those mercurial eyes an instant before the kiss. 

Victory. 

“This is a trick,” John breathed, dread replacing the beginnings of lust. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but not with fear or hurt. His eyebrows raised slightly and his head cocked minutely to the side, as if John had done something unexpectedly fascinating. 

John felt sick.

“Hale told me that he heard laughter as his crew was killed,” John accused, backing up quickly. “That the Sirens promise everything you desire. He said he heard you talking! About calluses or some rot.” John’s left hand tingled unpleasantly and he clenched it into a fist. He saw Sherlock notice the movement, likely filing the information away to use against him later. “I didn’t really believe him at first…” John straightened his already stiff shoulders, but the familiar posture was neither grounding nor comforting, not when John thought of what he had almost done with this creature. What he still wanted to do. “Is this how you treat all your lovers? You fuck them and then eat them?”

Something dark and ugly passed over Sherlock’s face. “You know nothing of my lovers.”

John felt bile rise at what those words implied. “But they have existed. Which means you caught more people. That first time it might have been unavoidable, but you said the power was addictive. You didn’t stop. Every time you saw a ship you would Sing and would doom those sailors to the sea or to your hunger.”

“Are you not also a killer, John Watson? How many men have you killed?”

“I killed for my King and my country! There is no honour in what you do. You’re a cannibalistic psychopath!” 

The Siren’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “Of course, you’re right,” he spat. “Did you know the one man I truly wished to keep ended up dying anyway? I keep his skull as a keepsake.”

John stared at the creature in horror, but he was no longer looking at John. His expression was twisted with self-disgust and his lips trembled. He averted his face to the window, through which the first rays of sunlight shone. 

“How can a being so beautiful be so terrible?”

The Siren’s eyes snapped back to John’s, his face suddenly, terrifyingly blank. “There are no such things as angels, John, and if there were, I would not be one of them.” 

John could not bear to look at that cold face anymore. Nearly stumbling in his haste, he left the sickbay and leaned against the door from the outside. With his left hand badly trembling, he lowered himself to the deck and sat, watching the sun emerge from under the sea.

*

“I just want you to be safe, Harriet.”

The majority of the time, Harry was content with William. He was kind and patient and very honest with her. When he had struggled in the aftermath of the shipwreck he alone had survived, it had been Harry he had turned to for comfort. She was the one that calmed his panics, the one that banished his nightmares, the one that listened to his terrified ramblings. He trusted her with his vulnerabilities, and yet also contained the strength and leadership skills to captain this ship.

“These creatures are dangerous. And they’ve already escaped once.”

The majority of the time, Harry was content with William. But the rest of the time she resented the control he had over her life. She had had no say in the matter of her accompanying him aboard the ship. He claimed he didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone in the city, but she knew he was simply trying to satisfy his compulsive need to watch and coddle her. She hated the way he dictated what she wore and where she went, but more than anything she hated the phrase:

“I know what’s best for you, love.” 

William’s face was completely earnest, his big brown eyes gazing at her, and he instantly noticed the way her brow furrowed. As per usual, he completely misread her expression.

“Fret not,” he requested, his big hands engulfing hers. “In a few days we will be home and you’ll never have to think of the monsters again.”

 _I will not stay trapped in this cabin for the duration of this voyage_ , she thought vehemently, but stayed silent. She knew from experience that her arguments would land on deaf ears. She gave her husband a strained smile. “I am not afraid,” she assured him. 

He clasped her face in his hands, calluses rough against her cheeks, and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Of course not, my brave girl.” He got up from where he knelt in front of her and moved towards the cabin’s doors. “I will return for lunch. You can read that book I got you.” He smiled at her and was gone.

Harry looked briefly around the room her and her husband shared. As the trip was a short one, the cabin was only sparsely furnished and without much by way of entertainment. Her eyes landed on the newly started book on her bedside table, which was possibly the driest literature she had ever laid eyes upon.

“No, I don’t think so,” she huffed and stood abruptly, hearing the chair scrape against the floor. She peeked out the cabin door to make sure William was gone, and then quickly snuck from the room. 

Harry was well aware of how dangerous the Sirens were, had helped John a bit with patching up the injured, so she assumed it was morbid fascination that steered her now. She saw no logic in staying bored in the cabin when there were things so much more interesting elsewhere. She and John had always shared an adventurous disposition, but while John ran off to war, Harry…Harry defied her husband’s orders. She would take back control where she could.

She made a quick stop by the galley to grab some drinking water and a lump of what passed for bread to sailors, and then made her way to the brig, smiling to the crewmen that greeted her as she passed, and ignoring those that leered at her. When she reached the brig, the guard eyed her from where he lazed in his chair. “Mrs. Hale.”

She pursed her lips, trying to get a read on him. “I’ve just come to feed the prisoner.” 

“Just leave it here.” He nodded. “I’ll do it. S’not safe for a bird like you.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Nonsense. I’ve got you watching out for me. Besides, what could she possibly want with me?” Harry turned to look at the Siren. “I’m only a woman.” 

With a shrug, the guard heaved himself from his chair to unlock the cell door.

“Why is she gagged?” Harry asked, eyeing the Siren. She was curled into herself in the corner of the cell, her feet wrapped in burlap and her arms tied behind her back. Her wings were restrained and the knot of the gag was visible at the back of her head. “You know she can’t Sing.”

“She can make noise though.”

Harry gave him an unimpressed look, which he returned, and then she stepped into the cell. She hesitated as she approached the creature. With her face hidden, Harry did not know how the Siren was reacting to her presence, or whether she was even awake. Her immense wings covered most of her naked body, the feathers messy and broken. This close, Harry could see how the black of each feather gradually bled into wine-red. And her hair was not really hair at all, but more feathers arranged almost like a horse’s mane, or an Indian’s headdress. The effect was quite lovely, beautiful even, and Harry only realized she was staring when she noticed the Siren peeking at her from the corner of her eye. Harry startled and then forced herself to kneel in front of the creature.

“I’ve brought you food and water,” she explained.

The Siren looked at her with dull eyes, the evidence of her grief in the tear stains on her face, and Harry had to remind herself that this delicate-looking creature was a killer, that she belonged in a cage.

“I’m not sure you deserve it, but John seems to see some good in you lot, so…” Harry trailed off, awkward, as the Siren continued to gaze at her. Jerkily, she placed the food and mug on the floor and reached for the knot of the gag. “Here, I’ll just untie this.”

The Siren was still as Harry removed the gag, and Harry, curious, let her fingers brush against those silky feather tresses. When she leaned back, the Siren met her gaze again, but now there was a spark of interest in her cerulean eyes. 

“Why are you here?” The Siren asked once the gag was removed, and Harry gasped in surprise. “Yes, of course I can talk,” the creature continued in an exasperated tone.

Harry gaped for another moment and then gestured helplessly to the hard tack and the cup of water. 

“No, I mean on this ship. Women are hardly ever on ships.”

“I – I’m the captain’s wife,” Harry stammered.

The Siren’s eyes darted to the ring on Harry’s left hand. “Oh, of course. And he’s dragged you along for the ride, has he?” Her eyes drifted along Harry’s body as if making an evaluation, and somehow Harry felt like _she_ was the one that was exposed. “Pretty thing like you, he must keep you on a short lead.”

To her horror, Harry felt herself begin to blush. Such a comment from a man was always met with disdain, but from this creature…this woman… Killer or not, she was stunning, almost painfully gorgeous. And Harry had always been partial to a good set of cheekbones. 

“I am my own person,” Harry replied, not correcting or denying the Siren’s assumption.

The Siren smirked. “I’ll bet he just hates that. Men only desire the body, not the mind, isn’t that so?”

Harry wasn’t so sure. She thought of John’s marriage to Mary, how the couple had been dearest friends in addition to husband and wife. She remembered John’s guilt and severe depression upon her passing, another level of hurt on top of his discharge from the military.

“Your husband,” the Siren continued, “does not care about your wants, does he? He takes his pleasure roughly, violently.”

Heat bloomed in Harry’s cheeks, but whether it was due to embarrassment, anger or the shameful little thrill that shot through her at hearing those words, she wasn’t sure. “William is a most patient man,” she denied vehemently. “My coldness has inspired frustration in him but never violence.”

“Your coldness,” the creature repeated. She eyed Harry with heavy-lidded eyes. “You do not seem cold to me. In fact, with the right partner, I believe you would be absolutely scorching.” 

Too easily Harry could picture it, this dark goddess writhing against Harry’s body, her smooth skin under Harry’s hands, her breathy moans in Harry’s ears. For the first time since her ill-fated liaison with Clara, Harry experienced intrigue and excitement at the thought of a sexual encounter. The beginnings of heat pooled between her legs and Harry drew a shaky breath. Flustered, she reached for the mug of water and brought it to the Siren’s lips.

“May I not feed myself?”

“I would not trust you with your hands free,” Harry retorted. Carefully she tipped the mug and watched as the Siren swallowed.

The creature hummed and lipped the rim of the cup. “Wise of you, but it is my mouth that is most wicked.”

It was pure luck that Harry did not upend the water onto the Siren. She tipped the cup more, forcing the Siren to drink rather than talk, and then reached for the hard tack. Harry was tempted to stuff the thing in the creature’s mouth and flee, but forced herself to be patient as the Siren slowly chewed, eyeing Harry all the while. Harry held the bread with only two fingers, but on the last bite her fingers were met by a wet tongue and Harry quickly pulled her hand away. Embarrassed and aroused, Harry stood, ignoring the Siren’s breathy chuckle.

“Do come back, my dear. It’s so nice having another woman to talk to.”

It was only after Harry had left the brig entirely that she realized she had forgotten to replace the gag and to take the mug with her. She stopped in the shadows at the side of the stairs and attempted to collect herself. Women always affected her when men did not, and the Siren had a sinful beauty to her that caught Harry’s eye and her interest. She was lucky that William had never found out about Clara, but attempting a dalliance on her husband’s ship right under his nose would be beyond audacious. And with a killer to boot! 

That thought helped dampen her mood somewhat, though a dark part of her mused that if she were to participate in a sinful love, then doing so with a _femme fatale_ would be downright fitting. 

The sudden approach of footsteps startled her. “Oh!”

“Harry?” 

“John!” Harry exclaimed. “You scared me.”

His apologetic smile looked strained. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was just…” she pointed over her shoulder to where she’d come from. “I was checking on the prisoner.”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he didn’t comment. “Well, I’m about to see the other one.” He lifted his hands, which held a mug of water and hard tack just like what Harry had brought earlier.

He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes more apparent than usual, but Harry refrained from commenting, knowing how he hated when she ‘coddled’ or ‘nagged’ him. “I’ll join you,” Harry offered instead, falling into step next to her brother.

“Alright,” John agreed, throwing her a knowing look. “Trying to avoid dear William, are we?”

Harry stuck out her tongue at him in a decidedly un-ladylike fashion, and John chuckled. They made their way to the hold, where barrels and crates of food and supplies were pushed aside to make room for the russet-winged Siren. She sat straight-backed and staring blankly at her wrapped feet in front of her, her wrists tied in front of her. Each ankle was wrapped in ropes which led to heavy barrels, which served as weighted shackles to stop her from escaping while allowing her a modicum of movement. Unlike the other female Siren, this one was not gagged, and her guard sat as far from her as the small room would allow, his gaze unwavering. He threw the siblings a brief glance as they entered.

“Doctor. Missus,” he greeted.

“Thompson,” John returned. “Just here to check up on our lady guest.”

Thompson grunted in acknowledgment but kept his eyes on the Siren. His focus was intense and a little odd, in Harry’s opinion, and excessive seeing as the creature was doing nothing but sitting there. 

John approached the Siren slowly while Harry stayed back a bit, out of the way. She watched as John placed the food and drink on the ground at the Siren’s side and then moved to check her injured wing. He removed the bandages and shook his head at what they revealed. 

“What?” Harry asked, craning her neck to see around him.

“It’s practically healed! Four days and there’s a nice pink layer of new skin. I can hardly believe it and I’m looking right at it.”

The Siren lifted her head and looked at John as he spoke, and Harry saw her nostrils flare. In a sudden move, the creature grabbed the front of John’s shirt with both hands and pulled him forwards. He stumbled and knocked over the mug of water, would have fallen completely were it not for her grip. Harry felt her chest constrict in fear, but was distracted by Thompson pulling out his pistol next to her.

“No! Don’t shoot!” she cried, and lunged forward to grab his wrist. He looked at her in surprise and outrage and tried to shake her off. “You’ll hit him!” Harry insisted, and the two of them looked at how John was stuck essentially shielding the Siren’s body.

The Siren stretched closer to John’s face, and Harry was sure she was going to bite him or kiss him, but she stopped with a sliver of space between them. The Siren stayed there for a moment, with her nose nearly touching John’s lips, before moving to his neck, and Harry realized that the creature was _sniffing_ him. Harry let go of Thompson’s wrist to help John, maybe pull him away somehow, but was stayed when Thompson gripped her wrist in turn.

“Wait,” he hissed.

“She’ll rip his throat out!” Harry protested.

The Siren leaned back then to scrutinize John’s face, her hands still holding him by the shirt. “You don’t smell very afraid,” she murmured. 

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John countered, and Harry felt a hysterical giggled threaten to burst out. 

The Siren smirked. “The bravery of the soldier. Or perhaps stupidity would be more apt. What is your relationship with Sherlock?”

 _Sherlock?_ Harry wondered, trying to determine John’s reactions without seeing his face.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern, _Mycroft_ ,” John replied, and Harry’s eyes widened in shock. The creature had a _name_? And John knew what it was? How?

“He’s my brother, I worry about him,” the Siren admitted.

“ _Brother_?” Thompson hissed, and Harry shrugged her shoulders helplessly.

“He’s a killer, same as you. What relationship could we possibly have?” John retorted.

Thompson’s grip loosened with shock, and Harry pulled away, moving to better see what was happening. The Siren removed her fists from John’s shirt to instead stroke over the center of his chest, and John stiffened.

The creature’s next words were spoken quietly, and Harry strained to hear. “I think that without your wife and without the war you are a very lonely man, John.”

“What do you want?” John demanded, voice strained.

“I’m sure whatever sense you have is telling you to stay away from him,” the Siren continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But I can tell by your left hand that that’s not going to happen.”

Harry glanced at John’s left hand, which was empty and loose at his side.

“My what?”

“Your left hand,” she repeated and reached for said appendage. John tried to jerk away but she grabbed his wrist and held up his hand for inspection. Harry fisted and flexed her own hands in agitation. 

“What about it?” Harry asked, anxious.

The Siren’s eyes flicked her way before returning to John. “You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand,” she began. “At first I assumed it was nerve damage or a reaction to the trauma you have witnessed. But that’s not quite it, is it?” It didn’t sound like a question. 

Harry saw a muscle jump in John’s jaw. She took a step towards them, but was stopped by the Siren’s icy glare.

“Let go of me,” John ordered, voice low and deadly. Harry had never heard him use that tone before and suddenly felt a lot more respect for her younger brother.

“You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady,” the Siren observed calmly. “You are not haunted by the war, you miss it. And when you are with Sherlock, the war is what you see.”

The Siren released his wrist then and John instantly stood to step away. With her chin tilted up, the creature followed him with a cool gaze, and Harry moved to grab her brother and pull him away. 

“I’m fine, Harry.”

Harry ignored him, looking him over, but other than a rumpled shirt and a slightly red wrist, he was right. “John,” she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

He pulled away from her and turned to Thompson. “It’s more effective if you tie their hands behind their back.”

Thompson, badly shaken and pale, just nodded jerkily.

“I’ll see you later,” John reassured Harry, and moved to sidestep her.

Harry grabbed his arm, her mind whirring with questions, but she hesitated when met with his tired eyes. “Get some rest,” Harry ordered instead, squeezing his arm, and John nodded before leaving. 

She looked back at the Siren, where the mug was tipped over, its contents spilt, the old bandages in a pile next to her, and the hard tack untouched. She was once again staring at her feet, apparently docile. 

If Harry stayed much longer, William would find their room empty, so she left and let Thompson deal with the deceptive creature.

*

During his six years as a sailor, Mike had become well versed in the numerous superstitions and myths found at sea. An educated man, he was somewhat ashamed to admit that even he paid heed to some of them – it was hard not to when his fellow seamen were all superstitious goats.

For example, Mike would never be caught dead with a banana on a ship. Downright evil fruit, bananas. Having Harriet on-board did not bother him, but poor Peters suffered an eye twitch every time he saw the lass. And certain words were off limits, too – never should a sailor utter the words ‘goodbye’ or ‘good luck’, for surely that would only invite ruin. Dolphins brought good fortune, while sharks foretold death, and then there were mermaids. 

Fishwives, sea-girls, _Nàyades, Rusalkas, Undines, Ceasg_. Whatever name they were given, mermaids were told to be beautiful creatures, often with evil intentions. Mike had heard of the restless spirits of young virginal girls, dead by drowning and seeking men to join them in their watery graves. He’d heard of the water nymphs that provoked disaster, the devil fish that would grant three wishes upon her capture, and the sea people whose voices made grown men weep. They were meant to be enchanting, irresistible, with fish-tails instead of legs and webs between their fingers and gills to let them breathe underwater.

The creature staring at him looked nothing like that. 

Mike kept his gaze focused on his book, but he had not read a word in several minutes. Instead he was desperately resisting the urge to look up at the Siren – Sherlock – whom he could see in his peripheral vision. The man was sat in front of him and was still as a statue, looking right at Mike. Right at him. Probably thinking about how good Mike would taste. Admittedly, Mike was a bit on the pudgy side, which surely made him some kind of delicacy. But he was also grimy and smelly, which couldn’t be appetizing, really.

He shifted.

Coughed.

“Would you please stop looking at me like you want to eat me,” he snapped, finally giving up on hiding in his book. 

The Siren raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even reading.”

“What? Of course I am,” Mike blustered.

“You move your lips subtly when you read. You stopped doing so four minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.”

What an arrogant… “What was I reading?” he challenged.

“ _By this time it blew a terrible Storm indeed, and now I began to see Terror and Amazement in the Faces_ —”

Mike glanced at the words on his page that Sherlock couldn’t possibly see. “Alight! I believe you, no need to be so smug.” 

Sherlock’s smirk faded, replaced by a quizzical gaze. “Why read a story of an adventure at sea when you’re already on a ship?”

Mike looked down and lovingly smoothed his hand over the dog-eared pages. “Nostalgia, I guess. This book was what interested me in exploring the seas as a boy. Though I wanted to be a pirate.”

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Sentiment,” he muttered dismissively.

“You’ve never been curious about pirates? I used to find the idea enchanting. Men living by the pirate’s code, taking what they wanted in the world, going where they pleased…” he trailed off, remembering his childhood fascination. “Of course, they’re not nearly so glamorous in reality. Cruel men, pirates.”

“I’ve met pirates,” Sherlock boasted. “Most of them are not nearly as interesting as they think they are.”

“Mostly?”

“The ones that were insane were interesting. One pirate claimed he had been eaten by a kraken, returned from the dead, and seen the fountain of youth.”

Mike chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “He sounds like a good storyteller.” He placed his open book on his lap to keep his spot, the cover facing up. “Watson used to love a good story, too, at uni. He was always scribbling something or other in his notebooks.”

“You knew John,” Sherlock stated.

Mike nodded. “We followed the same courses for a couple years together. He was about to propose to his Mary when I dropped out to go seafaring. He was quite smitten.” He smiled fondly in memory. “The next I heard of him was four years later from an old school mate. Told me Watson had gone off to war. I didn’t think much of it except that it suited him – the man had always been a bit of an adrenaline addict. You wouldn’t believe the wild antics we got into at uni. He's always had strong morals, though.” From the moment they’d captured the Sirens, Watson had assigned himself the duty of protecting the creatures. It was that protective instinct that made him such a good doctor, Mike believed. He admired that in his friend. “I was right surprised to see him on the _Defiance_ , you can imagine.” And heartbroken for him, too. Mike had asked Watson the day they’d set sail how life at home was going, only to be told in curt sentences that Mary was dead and he recently recovered from a war injury. How such terrible fortune could come to such a good man, Mike did not understand.

Sherlock was silent, face unreadable. What was Mike doing, prattling on when the Siren was clearly indifferent? He realized that Sherlock was probably bored, with nothing to do but sit and stare. The creature was eyeing his book again, and Mike was struck with the thought that he was like a child too shy to ask for a story. 

“I could read to you,” he offered, turning the book over so its pages faced up. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his face and then away. He crossed his arms and leaned back, appearing disinterested. “If you must,” he sighed.

Mike hid a smile. He was surprised to find that he liked Sherlock, who was really quite childlike for such an imposing creature. He had keen eyes, an aura of danger about him, and an aloofness that Mike was sure was mostly put-on. He could see why John, who loved a good thrill and had his own brand of dark humour, was so fond of Sherlock. 

Were the circumstances different, Mike could imagine them being fast friends.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Mike continued where he’d left off, once again immersing himself in the tale of Robinson Crusoe: “ _By this time it blew a terrible Storm indeed, and now I began to see Terror and Amazement in the Faces even of the Seamen themselves…_ ”

*

Fern leaves brushed against John’s face, their green scent mixing with the metallic tang of blood. The sprawled body next to him was still, but ahead of him there was movement. The enemy. He was trying to move silently, but John could hear his footfalls. He felt eyes on him.

John lunged, crashing through the underbrush. There was a knife in his hand. His medkit was lost somewhere. With a grunt he tackled the enemy to the ground, forced the body beneath him into submission. Pressed cold metal against warm flesh. The enemy stared up at him with disgust and mostly fear. This man was a killer, but so was John, and John had his orders.

Under his hands, flesh seemed to ripple and shift, and John looked down in surprise. Blood-matted feathers lay like a blanket under them. Slick, black and sticky. Iron tang in the back of his throat.

“It’s only fair,” a low voice rumbled.

With a jolt of shock, John noticed that the face of the enemy had changed. Sherlock looked up at him. It was easier when they weren’t human, when they were just ‘the enemy’. But the face that stared up at him – pale skin, full lips and sharp cheekbones – was all too human. 

The enemy was a killer. Sherlock was a killer. But so was John.

He plunged the knife down.

With a gasp, John jolted awake. 

Breathing heavily, he sat up in his hammock, nearly tipping over in his agitation. Quickly he scrambled to the floor and scooted so his back was pressed against a beam. Head in his hands he tried to compose himself.

This was not the first nightmare John had had on-board. He was already known for them, having woken up fellow sailors with his shouting before. Fortunately, his midday nap meant he was mostly alone in the sleeping quarters and he had not disturbed anyone this time. The concerned questions were worse than the nightmares themselves. 

_You miss it_ , his mind whispered. _With Sherlock, the war is what you see_.

John shook his head and wiped the excess moisture from his eyes. Sherlock was a killer, but so was John. And while John could claim his actions were backed with the strongest of morals, that the violence he employed was for the greater good, it was difficult to see the honour in stabbing a fellow human to death.

John’s mood was foul as he completed his daily tasks. As he swept and mopped and checked on his patients, he contemplated man’s proclivity for violence. War and fighting and murder. When he had been speared down, he had begged God for his life, but he suddenly realized, with a new perspective, that perhaps John’s downfall had been the response to another man’s prayers. For if John had not been struck down, surely he would have succeeded in killing one of the enemy. 

John wondered what it said about him that upon his honourable expulsion from the army, he had descended into depression. That without a source of action and violence he had become closed off and morose, and had cut out his wife. He had not wanted to burden Mary with his troubles, but he knew that she had suffered regardless, as her efforts to give him comfort had been met with cold blankness. John had always believed his purpose was to heal and prevent pain, and yet he often found himself causing it. He had studied medicine hoping to treat wounds and minimize suffering and he had boarded this ship with the intention of putting his abilities to use. Yet he found himself in the middle of another type of war – and it was amidst this tension between humans and Sirens that John felt most alive. Were all beings doomed to destroy each other with their hate and bloodlust?

Unbidden, the image of Sherlock in the sickbay, self-disgust twisting his beautiful face, bloomed in John’s mind’s eye. John had subjected the Siren to self-righteous words and had condemned him with bold (though not unfounded) assumptions. He recalled how Sherlock’s bottom lip had trembled, and though John had not felt comfortable naming the emotion at the time, he knew that it was despair that had so afflicted the Siren. Was it possible that the creature felt guilt for the deaths he had caused?

It was with this troubling thought that John made his way to the brig in the late afternoon. Despite his personal turmoil, he had duties to carry out, and he had not treated Irene since the previous day.

Irene was watching him the moment he stepped into view and her eager expression morphed into one of displeasure. “Oh, it’s you,” she sighed. 

John rolled his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.” He nodded to Willis, who was keeping guard. John signed in greeting, conveying a mix of _how are you_ and _good day_ , which Willis returned. John wondered if the deaf man got lonely, being able to communicate only rudimentary phrases and being cut-off from the world. He imagined it would be somewhat like being submerged in water.

“At least you I can talk to,” Irene allowed. 

“You must be used to silence, living so isolated on those rocks,” John countered, looking at her through the cell bars. Her nakedness did not even phase him anymore.

“I always had my siblings to talk to.” 

John gestured to the cell door, which Willis moved to unlock. 

“They’re fine,” John assured her. “Mycroft is nearly good as new.”

Irene looked at him sharply as he stepped into the cell. “You know our names?”

“Sherlock told me,” he admitted, approaching her.

She continued to stare at him, her expression unreadable. “And Sherlock,” she said at last. “Is he, too, ‘good as new’?”

John placed the water and bread next to her, but she did not look away from him. He met her gaze with a twinge of regret. “His wing is untreatable. He’ll not fly again.” 

Irene looked away, pain in the lines around her eyes. “He’s lost his flight and his Song. What remains to him?” She hugged her knees to her chest. “You must make sure he eats. He’s always been too skinny. Mummy would always try to get him to eat more, but he hated to see the animals suffer. It was only worse with humans.”

Emotion froze John on the spot. He was unsure what was stronger – his horror that the sisters did eat humans, or his hope that Sherlock didn’t. “Sherlock did not eat people?”

Irene rolled her eyes at him, and her relation to Sherlock became extremely obvious. “Of course he did, he had to if he wanted to survive. He just never ate them alive. He’d let them waste away and die first, the idiot.”

John just stared for a moment, trying to understand a life where a mother would teach her children to eat animals alive, humans included. It was a mother’s instinct to make sure her offspring thrived, and John was beginning to realize just how far that instinct could go. The Sirens had never been taught morals, had not grown up in society, where people were forced to interact and compromise and conform in order to be accepted. What Irene had revealed about Sherlock – his compassion and reluctance to kill – was practically miraculous when their upbringing was considered. Perhaps John had judged him too harshly, perhaps Sherlock could learn. The sisters though, John was less sure of. It was clear that they considered themselves superior to humans.

“You are very powerful,” John told her, watching her smirk at his words. “But with that power comes great responsibility – how will you use your power?”

He turned away from her confused face then and grabbed her waste bucket before leaving the brig.

“I’ll not eat this!” she cried petulantly as the cell door was locked once again. “Bring me meat!”

John shrugged without looking back. “Do what you will, but that’s all you’re getting.” He ignored her enraged shriek, slightly amused. In some ways Irene reminded him of the times John had annoyed Harry until she broke down in a fit.

He emptied and cleaned her waste bucket, similar to the bedpans he used to clean for his patients, before quickly returning it to Willis. He then made his way to the sickbay, which he had avoided for too long, and went to relieve Stamford, who John knew was there. 

“Watson!” Stamford greeted him. “You’re looking better, mate.”

“Feeling better,” John agreed, forcibly keeping his gaze away from the cot. “I think chef’s making us an early dinner. Bring me some later, will you?”

Stamford got up with an amusing amount of eagerness, his face delighted. “Will do, doc!” he promised and swiftly left the sickbay. 

John smiled after him and he took the vacated seat. Food was one of Stamford’s great loves, second only to the sea. 

Gathering his courage, John looked at the Siren, his smile dimming. Sherlock was watching him, his posture defensive, eyes unsure. John sighed and looked away. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Silence. “What?” Sherlock asked blankly. 

John looked back at him, noting the honest surprise on his face. “And I’m sorry I called you a psychopath. Though ‘cannibal’ was fairly accurate, you have to admit.”

Sherlock made a choked noise. “John, what --?” 

“Look,” John interrupted, going for serious. “I said before that I killed for my king and my country, and that made my actions honourable. But…well, I was wrong, alright? You and me…our weapons are different, but the outcome is the same. We’ve both killed, and there is no honour in it. Sometimes, death is necessary, but it’s not something to be _enjoyed_ , it’s never been something I’ve _enjoyed_ doing –”

His rant was halted by a hesitant touch on his hand. He tensed automatically and the bound hands pulled away. “You are a good man, John Watson,” Sherlock declared. “And dangerous, too. That is _fascinating_.”

“I am human, and I project my expectations onto you, but you’re not human. You do not know our ways, but I think you could learn. Because killing is very not good, Sherlock, and if we are to be friends –”

“Friends?” 

Sherlock looked as shocked as John felt. Friends? Where had that come from? Sherlock was a prisoner. He was a different species, for God’s sake! But John had to admit that he felt some sort of compulsion towards him, an attraction he did not feel for the other two Sirens.

“I did not want the humans to die,” Sherlock admitted quickly. “I only wanted to learn from them. We were stuck on those rocks, John, but I knew that beyond the ocean was a world full of mystery and excitement. You understand what it’s like, to be without purpose.” The Siren’s eyes burned into John’s, and John nodded, mute. “The military left you, your wife left you, your skills were useless. You felt adrift at sea, just like I did.”

“How --?”

“Because I _see_ things, John. My mind is razor sharp, and without puzzles it rends itself apart.”

Hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, John had to admit that Sherlock did appear unhinged, and yet still strikingly lovely.

“For an eternity it’s been like this. Dull, blank, nothing to hold my focus. But humans, John. You are interesting, you are mysteries to unravel. Whenever I see a human I see a whole other world – you have hobbies and relationships and homes and secrets.”

John felt like his soul was bared to the Siren’s heated gaze, but Sherlock did not try to kiss him again. Instead he leaned back, some of the energy seeping out of him. 

“I never meant for them to die, but they always did. Even when I gave them food and water, they died.” 

They were silent for a moment, both remembering the deaths they had witnessed, and the bleakness of their lives before the _HMS Defiance_. 

“How did you know about Mary?” John asked, curious. 

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “The ring.”

John glanced at his left hand, which wore no ring, and back to the Siren questioningly.

Sherlock gestured to John’s chest. “The one you wear from that chain around your neck.” 

Automatically, John laid a palm over the ring hidden under his tunic. Mycroft had grabbed it when she had grabbed his shirt, and at the time he had been worried she would rip off the chain. “Mycroft noticed it, too.” Sherlock made a displeased face, and John smirked. “Well, go on, tell me your deductions.”

“Deductions,” he muttered. “That’s good, John,” he praised, and John raised his eyebrows expectantly. “At first, it seemed likely that the ring was yours, as your profession requires you work with your hands and does not facilitate the wearing of jewelry. No tan around your ring finger supports the deduction, but the size is wrong.”

“The size?”

“Yes, size. Your fingers are small, but not that small. The ring hidden under your shirt would never fit you, therefore it could not be yours. The chain it hangs upon is also new for you – you often shift it as you are unused to wearing it.”

John started in surprise – he had not even noticed that habit.

“Why would a man recently decide to carry a too-small ring with him at all times, just before jumping on a ship no less? It’s a memento. A reminder. Either she left you or she died.” 

“Amazing,” John blurted.

Sherlock hesitated. “Really?”

“Of course, that was absolutely amazing!”

“That’s not what humans normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Well, whatever I like, actually,” he admitted, chagrined. “My Song has a rather detrimental effect on the human thought process.”

John considered. “All this talk about Siren songs has me curious. I wish I could hear it.”

“I am glad you cannot,” Sherlock said sharply.

John raised his eyebrows in query, but the Siren looked away. They were silent again. 

“So, which was it?” Sherlock rumbled.

“Sorry?”

“Your wife.”

“Ah.” John swallowed, throat tight. “Can’t you figure it out?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked around John’s face. “You’re a romantic, and sentimental enough to still love someone who left you. But you’ve got a bit of a temper, too, don’t you?”

John pursed his lips awkwardly, not denying that he’d been in his share of bar fights.

“I think you can hold a grudge, which means your love could turn to resentment.” Sherlock paused then, and when he spoke again his voice was surprisingly soft. “She died, did she not?”

John cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “I did love Mary very much.” She’d had the most beautiful smile and this thing she did with her nose when she laughed. She had been the most selfless person he had ever known. “When I was invalided, I was inconsolable. She was there for me, she offered support, but I had closed off the world and retreated into myself. It was wretched, how I ignored her. And then she became ill.” John paused and took an uneven breath, wondering why he was sharing his regrets for the first time with a Siren. “It was fast, so fast. She was dead in a week.” He had never known such guilt and anguish before, all-consuming, paralyzing. He’d turned to gambling then, rather than the drink Harry was fond of, and quickly found himself in the slums of London. He did not need to wear the ring to remember her – he couldn’t imagine forgetting her – but he wore it anyway. “I shouldn’t have treated her like that.”

“You feel very strongly,” Sherlock noted, but there was no pity in his eyes, for which John was extremely grateful.

“I’m human,” he shrugged. 

“Yes,” the Siren agreed simply.

Stamford briefly returned later to give John some water and a plate of food, but nothing for Sherlock. John’s irritation at that was quickly overcome by hunger. He had not eaten yet that day, and the crew was being treated to the rest of the ship’s veggies (which were going a bit limp), some cheese, salted crackers and chicken. He placed the plate onto his desk and then grabbed the knife out of his boot. When he reached for Sherlock, the Siren shifted in alarm.

John frowned. “I’m only freeing your hands.” He carefully slipped the knife between pale skin and rough rope, and sliced through the bonds. He inspected the chafing on the Siren’s wrists, glad that there was no torn skin.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, bewildered.

“Because I’m not going to feed you by hand when yours are perfectly functional.” John squeezed his big hands once, surprised at the heat that radiated off of them despite Sherlock’s bare torso. John grabbed the plate and placed it on his own lap. “Go ahead,” he offered, and snagged a stick of celery for himself, crunching on it loudly. 

Long fingers darted to take a piece of chicken, which Sherlock eyed suspiciously.

“It’s just poultry,” John explained, wondering if he’d ever tried it before. “Cooked obviously. Pretty common as far as meat goes.”

Sherlock threw the piece in his mouth and chewed delicately. 

“Good?”

In response, the Siren grabbed another piece and chewed with a bit more enthusiasm. John smiled. “Go ahead,” he offered, placing the plate in Sherlock’s lap. 

“You must be sick of bread by now.” Pale eyes flicked up at him questioningly. “I can get more later.”

Reassured, Sherlock devoured the rest of the meal, and John found himself watching as plump lips closed around long fingers. He shifted in his seat and averted his gaze.

When he was finished, Sherlock returned the empty plate to the desk, shoulders hunched with embarrassment. He was likely feeling uncomfortable with showing weakness, but John was pleased. It was satisfying being able to care for Sherlock.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah, no problem –” John began, but stopped when he saw those pale eyes staring at him gravely. It occurred to him that perhaps Sherlock wasn’t thanking him for just the food. “You’re welcome,” John replied, smiling.

Sherlock smiled back, a small tentative thing, but it made affection burst through John’s chest.

“Are we… _friends_ , then?” Sherlock asked, making ‘friends’ sound like some foreign word.

“I’d like to think we’re getting there.”

“And friends…help friends, yes?”

John frowned, feeling like he was walking into a trap. “Yes, when they can,” he said slowly.

Sherlock was silent for several moments, seeming to gather his courage. “My sisters will not survive in your cities,” Sherlock began and John’s frown deepened.

“I know you are prisoners aboard this vessel, but if the king wanted you dead he would have ordered you killed, not captured.”

“No, John. My sisters belong to the rocks, they belong to the ocean winds. They must be returned there.”

John tried to understand where this concern was coming from. “You sisters are in good health, Sherlock. Mycroft is healing better than you are, in fact.”

Sherlock just shook his head. “They’ve already lost their Songs, they cannot lose their home as well. My sisters have always belonged on our islands, have always thrived there. They know and desire nothing else.”

“Sherlock, I agree that it was wrong of us to attack you as we did, but if we return you, you will return to your ways. Every ship that passes by will be doomed.”

“We will change our ways!” he insisted. “We will feed off of sealife.”

John sighed, seeing another obstacle. “The rocks are no longer safe, Sherlock. Their location is known now. How long before Hale or someone else tries another attack?”

Sherlock glowered. “We are not weak.”

“No, but you are outnumbered and outgunned.” 

They were silent for a moment, at an impasse. Finally Sherlock murmured, “They have nowhere else to go.”

John sighed, unsure, understanding the concern he felt for his sisters. “And what about you? Surely you do not wish to stay on those ‘dull’ rocks?”

He flicked his head dismissively. “I must return them.”

“Sherlock, your sisters are quite able to take care of themselves. What do _you_ want?”

“I’ll not repeat myself,” he snapped. With that he laid himself down on the cot and steepled his hands over his chest. His eyes closed and John understood that he was being dismissed.

John contemplated Sherlock’s request until early evening when Stamford returned. When his friend opened the door, John ushered him back out, closing the sickbay door behind them. “Oi, Watson, alright?”

“Where exactly are we sending the Sirens once we reach port?” John demanded, not wasting time with pleasantries. He kept his voice low, not wishing to be overhead by the bustle on deck. 

Stamford opened and closed his mouth a few times before answering, surprised by the question. “Well, I don’t know, do I? I’m only a worker bee.”

“Who was commissioned by the king.”

“Nah, Hale was commissioned by the king. I was just hired by Hale.”

“Surely you’ve heard something?” John insisted. “Sailors are notorious gossipers.”

“Oi, you wound me, Watson.”

“I’m serious, Stamford. What hell are we dooming them to?”

“Look, Watson,” Stamford soothed, grabbing John’s good shoulder. “You probably know more than me, seeing as you’re the cap’n’s brother-in-law. But, listen, I admit I overheard a little chatter from the first mate.”

“Well, give it here.”

“Just rumours, mind you.”

“Rumours are often based on truth.”

“Alright, so Barty was gobbing over his food like he usually does, and he claims that the king is looking for a fishwife, see.”

John stared, thinking of feathers. “Well, he’s been sorely misinformed, hasn’t he.”

Stamford laughed. “That’s what I thought. Then Johnson’s talking about dissection and new age science freaks and Prescott’s claiming they’ll just be fancy pets. But Barty had a good point – he said that the Singing might come in real handy for politics, you know? Imagine the power a man would have with a trick like that, eh?”

“But they can’t Sing anymore.”

“Aye, isn’t that a shame.”

John frowned. “Hale did tell me that the Sirens were to go directly to the king, but that doesn’t tell us much. I suppose we can assume that whatever their fate, it’s not good.”

“Just think of it as shipping cargo – it doesn’t matter where it’s going as long as you complete the job.”

“They’re intelligent beings, Stamford,” John protested.

Stamford leaned closer, insistent. “And if they were human, they’d be hanged for the crimes they’re guilty of.”

John shook his head, looking away. “Life is never so black and white.”

With a sigh, Stamford pulled open the door to the sickbay. “You can’t go around trying to right every wrong in this world, lad. You’ll go mad.” Just before the door closed, John spotted Sherlock watching him, a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

John started walking, aimlessly at first, and then realized he was slowly heading for the hold, habit leading him without conscious thought. He made a detour to the ship’s kitchen, where he ate just enough to relieve the hunger pangs, and then grabbed an apple to bring to Mycroft. 

“Your brother asked me for help,” he told her in greeting, and enjoyed the brief look of shock.

“Did he? How…sentimental.” 

“Is that odd behaviour for him?” John moved behind her to untie her hands. “I’ll watch her for a few minutes, take a break,” he offered the guard, who thanked him and left. 

“Very. He’s extremely self-reliant, has been since Mummy left.” John gave her the apple when her hands were free, and she rotated it to inspect it.

“She left? I thought she’d died,” John admitted, taking a seat on a wooden crate.

“What led you to that conclusion?” Mycroft questioned, and took a small nibble of the fruit.

“Just…the way he talked about her, I suppose.” Always in past tense, and with a melancholy that was a bit heart-breaking to see. 

“Her abandonment affected him more than he lets on, I believe,” Mycroft admitted, frowning. “And of course every human he’s attempted to keep has died. I worry about him.”

“He tried to keep them to study them,” John pointed out.

Mycroft hummed and swallowed another bite of apple. “Sometimes, yes, but I do not think that was all.”

John had a sudden thought. “Why does your mother not save you?”

Mycroft lifted her wings in a way that looked like a substitute for a shrug. “She was always a flighty, fickle creature. It is entirely possible she forgot about us. Perhaps she died. It has been centuries after all.”

 _Centuries_. John gaped. 

Mycroft continued, oblivious to his reaction. “What exactly did he ask for? Escape?”

John shook off his bewilderment. “Er…He wants to return you to your home.”

Wide eyes met his. “Specifically that?”

John nodded. “He said that his sisters belong to the rocks and that they would not survive in human cities.” 

“How…ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered, apparently baffled.

“Well, people do crazy things for the ones they love,” John offered.

Turquoise eyes gazed at him, apple forgotten in her hand. “Yes, yes they do, don’t they,” she murmured, and John felt like there were two different conversations going on, one of which he couldn’t understand. 

He huffed in irritation. “Eat your apple.”

She did and for several moments the only sound was her chewing. When she’d finished, John took the core from her and re-secured her hands.

“Tell Sherlock that you are not Redbeard.”

John paused, sure he had misheard. “Pardon?”

She sighed in irritation. “Tell Sherlock these words exactly: ‘John is not Redbeard’.” 

He finished his knot and stood, hearing the footsteps of the returning guard. “Alright,” he agreed, confused. 

The guard returned then, so John wished them a goodnight before retiring to the sleeping quarters. Despite his nap, he was still feeling his lack of sleep lately, and was asleep within minutes of snuggling into his hammock.

*

He woke up suddenly only three hours later, and lay frozen with his eyes wide. Regular snores and the gentle rush of the sea were the only sounds, but his heart was pounding. Nightmare? He wasn’t sure but the near pitch blankness of the sleeping quarters was suffocating, so John escaped as quietly as he could to the top deck.

The night air was cool and refreshing, the stars a glorious spattering of light above him, and he slowly walked the perimeter of the deck. He was mostly calmed again when a thud and a muffled shout from the sickbay alerted him. With barely a thought John was running and pulling the door open.

Illuminated by weak candlelight, all John could see was a hunched form covering another, and John grabbed a handful of tunic and yanked. There was a gasp and John found himself looking into the furious face of Sebby. Upon recognizing John, his expression changed to surprise.

“Doc!” he exclaimed, but John had just noticed Sherlock, blood dripping from his nose, and was in no mood for platitudes. With a surge of strength he pushed the young sailor back into the desk, and then kept pushing until he lost his balance and fell back awkwardly. John leaned over him and knocked his feet aside to keep him down.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” John hissed, letting a hand tighten threateningly on Sebby’s throat.

“D-doc!” he stuttered, eyes wide. “Look, I didn’t mean noffin’, he was just blabbin’ and—”

“And you decided to shut him up?” John spat.

Sebby cringed back, mouth opening and shutting without saying anything, and John was tempted to shake the idiot into talking.

“John.”

Sherlock’s voice made John pause, and he took a moment to actually observe. Sebby’s pupils were enlarged, he was pale, sweating and his eye-lids were heavy. John glanced to his medications cabinet and saw the door wide open, lock on the floor next to a small metal pin.

“I told you you counted correctly.”

Disgusted, John roughly pulled the now limp Sebby up and shoved him out of the sickbay. “Sleep it off,” John hissed, watching as the man stumbled and nearly fell. “And if you come near here again your next dose of morphine will be a lethal one.”

Breathing heavily, he pulled the door shut again, just barely managing not to slam it. He grabbed some fresh gauze and kneeled in front of Sherlock, but as he was leaning forward to wipe away the blood, he noticed his expression.

“Sherlock,” he gasped. Pupils dilated, eyes drooping and a rather dopey smile curving his lips – he was high. “Did he --?”

“I was curious,” Sherlock mumbled, and if he hadn’t looked so pathetic, John would have smacked him over the head.

“You idiot! Too much of this stuff can kill you, you know!”

The Siren’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. When John saw more blood dripping towards his chin, he leaned forward to gently clean his face, wiping blood from his cupid-bow lips and from his Grecian nose. 

“I’m a genius,” he rumbled at last.

“Yeah, you’re just bursting with wit,” John retorted sarcastically, worried about the delayed response. He checked to make sure his nose wasn’t broken – it wasn’t – and then helped the Siren lie back on the cot without jostling his still-healing wing. “What happened?” he demanded, feeling for his pulse in his long neck. Sherlock tilted his head back to give him better access. 

He took a couple deep breaths, and then spoke, acting like it was more effort than it was worth. “You said ‘short on supply’ and Sebby has been pilfering,” that last word came out a bit slurred. “I know the morphine is locked up, so Sebby knows how to open locks – _useful_ skill. Told ‘im I wouldn’t tell about his habit if he showed me how to lock-pick.” His head turned toward John as if his neck had suddenly gone limp, and John jumped a bit at the feeling of a nose poking him in the chest. “So he did, and then he took the morphine and asked if I wanted to try that, too, and I was curious…” His sentence trailed off with a sigh and John found himself stoking a hand through those thick black curls. Sherlock mumbled something.

“What was that?” 

“You’re normally warm and cuddly, but you have sharp hidden edges. I like it.” 

The words were so odd that John felt a spark of alarm. “Oi, Sherlock, stay awake, alright? I don’t know how much you took.” John pinched his arm.

Sherlock growled, a dark, threatening sound, and John shivered. Sherlock lifted a hand and flapped it vaguely. “Under the cot.”

“What?”

Sherlock just sighed heavily, so John went to his hands and knees to look under the cot. Something glinted in the candlelight and he reached for it – an empty vial. 

“How much of this did you take?”

“One-third.”

John sighed in relief – he would be fine. “Just, don’t sleep alright? I want to keep an eye on your symptoms.”

Sherlock peeked at him under heavy eyelids. “You told Sebby to ‘sleep it off’.”

“Yeah, well I don’t much care what happens to him.”

The Siren seemed to find this terribly amusing, as he burst into snickers. His laughter was contagious, and John found himself chuckling in reaction. He pulled the chair closer and succumbed to the temptation to finger-comb those curls again. It was unlikely Sherlock would even remember it, and he seemed to enjoy it, making a pleased humming sound.

“ _Ça sent bien, Victor_.” 

John froze. “What did you say?”

“ _Ça sent bien_ ,” Sherlock repeated, and John recognized the language, but not the words.

“I don’t speak French, Sherlock.”

He scowled and then frowned, opening his eyes. “You reminded me of Victor.”

“Who?”

“My skull,” Sherlock clarified, and really this was making no sense for John at all. “He was the first, John, and I tried to keep him, really I did, but I didn’t know how to – what he needed, and he – he…”

Horrified, John noticed moisture pooling in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh, Lord,” he groaned. He moved from the chair to sit on the cot near Sherlock’s head, and the Siren instantly buried his face in John’s hip. “Hush now,” he soothed awkwardly, rubbing the Siren’s shoulder and trying to think of a distraction as the Siren hiccuped drunkenly. He remembered his meeting with Mycroft earlier, and decided to relay her message. “Hey, Sherlock?”

He hummed in acknowledgement. 

“I saw Mycroft today and she wanted me to tell you something.”

He hummed again, this time with an upward inflection at the end.

“I don’t know what it means, but she said to tell you, and I quote ‘John is not Redbeard’.” 

John wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t the reaction he got. With fumbling movements, Sherlock pushed himself up and twisted to glare at John. He opened his mouth to no doubt spit abuse, but John held up his hands defensively. 

“Just the messenger.”

Sherlock scowled viciously, but John was glad to see the anger seemed to clear his eyes a bit. He looked like he wanted to get up and pace, so John reached out to place a calming hand on his arm. The muscles snapped tight under his touch, but the Siren did not pull away. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you,” John murmured and Sherlock laughed once bleakly. “What’s it mean?”

“It means Mycroft is being an idiot,” he spat viciously. 

“Oh? So I am Redbeard?” John asked dubiously. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not! The entire comparison is wrong.”

“Ah,” John nodded as if he understood. “While my beard does have some auburn highlights to it I’ve never considered it to be red –”

“What are you on about?” Sherlock snapped. 

With a shrug, John leaned back against the wall, settling onto the cot. “Not sure. I’m finding this whole conversation mystifying, to be honest.” 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. “You’re an idiot,” he decided.

John placed a hand over his heart. “I had no idea you cared,” he gushed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again. John seemed to incite that reaction a lot.

With a sigh, Sherlock decided he had tired of being a vertebrate and essentially melted back to his original position on the cot. Which would have been fine except that John was there now. Sherlock paid this no mind, settling with his head in John’s lab. John tensed in surprise at the familiarity their position implied, but figured it was doing no harm. He forced himself to relax and scratch lightly at Sherlock’s scalp again, and the remaining tension in the Siren disappeared as well. They had to squirm a bit to accommodate the large wings.

“Why’d you let him hit you?” John wondered after they’d settled. “You’re very strong and have great reflexes, I’m sure you could have easily stopped him.”

For a long moment Sherlock was silent. John was beginning to feel sleepy again and had nearly forgotten his question when Sherlock replied. “Maybe I was distracted.”

John scoffed. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled sarcastically. “I know self-destructive tendencies when I see them.”

Sherlock hummed and nuzzled into John’s lap, which felt good, _really_ good, but fortunately John was too tired to get excited. It was some ungodly hour of night, and Sherlock’s body heat was making John extremely comfortable. Technically, John was on guard, but he’d just rest his eyes for a minute…

Sherlock mumbled something else, but John was already asleep.

*

John woke to hair tickling his nose, and his brain caught up just in time to abort the fist that was getting ready to fly. _He’s lucky I didn’t deck him_ , he thought.

“You’re lucky I didn’t deck you,” he said, huffing to keep black curls out of his nose.

“I would have stopped you,” Sherlock dismissed, unconcerned.

John considered that. “So you let Sebby hit you, but not me?”

“Wouldn’t want you to hurt your hand.”

And, wow, coming from Sherlock that was almost…sweet. Warm breath tickled John’s neck and he repressed a shiver. Sherlock's face was very close to his. “What are you doing?” he asked conversationally.

“You were right,” the Siren rumbled and leaned back a fraction. He was squinting slightly with focus, looking at the lower half of John’s face.

“I was?”

“Your beard does have auburn highlights in it. In the sun, I can see them.” 

Feeling stiffness in his left shoulder, John raised his right hand to scratch at his modest beard. “I need a shave.”

Sherlock’s hum didn’t sound like agreement.

“You need to let me up,” John continued, nodding at where Sherlock was leaning on his thigh. “Stamford will be here soon.”

“He just woke up,” Sherlock agreed. He let his fingers trail slowly down John’s thigh to his knee before pulling away. The sensation delayed John’s reply considerably. 

“How do you—” he finally managed.

“He’s talking to another sailor.”

Wait. “You can _hear_ him?”

“He’s saying we’ll reach port in two days. Is he right?”

John swallowed. “If the wind stays favourable, yes.”

Sherlock nodded and looked away. Without the Siren’s attention focused on him, John decided to brave his shoulder. Sleeping upright was never a good idea, and his injury was screaming its protests at him. With a deep breath he rolled his neck carefully to release some tension, and then tried rolling his shoulder. He grit his teeth in pain and gripped the old injury with his right hand. 

“How do you manage the hammocks with your shoulder like this?” Sherlock asked, frowning. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but thought better of the idea.

“Sometimes I sleep on a mat on the floor,” John admitted, gently massaging scar tissue and seizing muscles. “It’s not usually this bad, though.”

“Next time you’ll lie on the cot,” Sherlock decided, and John wondered about their ‘next time’. 

John had never been afraid of his sexuality. He knew how dangerous his attraction to Sherlock was, how risky their flirtations were, but that did not mean he would deny what was clearly there. It was what it was, and John just had to decide what to do about it. 

What was absurd to John was that, were they found out, the loudest objections would not be because Sherlock was inhuman, but because they were both men.

“Stamford coming?” he asked, pushing himself up from the cot, rolling his shoulder again with slightly less pain. 

Sherlock was still for a moment, listening. “He’s stopped for food.”

“I’ll just check your wing then before he comes.”

Sherlock submitted himself to John’s care, leaning against him as the bandages were unwound. When John gently palpated the disfigured bones, a hiss escaped Sherlock’s clenched teeth. John stroked the feathers soothingly. “Still so bad?”

“It aches where the bones incorrectly fused,” Sherlock muttered, going for clinical and missing it by miles.

“Look at the both of us cripples,” John said lightly, sighing. “Does it help with the bandage?”

There was a sulky silence. “Yes,” Sherlock grumbled. 

“Alright, I’ll just wrap it again.”

John did so and then proceeded to put the room back to rights. He relocked the medication cabinet, pocketed the small lock-pick, and moved the desk back to its proper spot. When he was done, he found Sherlock staring at him and fidgeting, his leg wiggling and his long fingers plucking at his trousers.

“What?”

“Bored,” Sherlock intoned. The leg wiggling increased.

John pursed his lips and looked around the small sickbay – there wasn’t much by way of entertainment, it was true. “I could find you a book? Actually, here –” Unlocking the cabinet again, John pulled out a manual on natural remedies and pain relief. “Read this for now.”

Sherlock turned the book around in his hands.

“Can you read?” John wondered and received a glare.

“Of course. I can read in eight different languages.”

“Alright, I was just asking.”

There was a knock on the door before Stamford pulled it open. “Watson!” he exclaimed. “Wasn’t little Sebby in here?”

“Sebby wasn’t feeling well last night, so I took over,” John explained, and it wasn’t even a lie. 

Beside him, Sherlock huffed in amusement, and Stamford looked between the two of them. “Alright,” he agreed slowly. “Well, go have a kip.”

“Will do,” John smiled, not about to tell his friend that he’d got enough sleep last night, actually. The weather was favourable when John stepped on deck – sunny with good winds – and John found himself wishing for more time. It was rare that he found himself in a situation where his morals did not point him in the right direction, but when it came to the Sirens, to Sherlock, John did not know what the right path was. 

If John helped return the Sirens to their rocks, the siblings would regain their Songs. In an ideal world, where there was enough sealife for the Sirens to eat, and where humans would leave the creatures in peace, Sirens and humans could coexist peacefully. But realistically, the Sirens would not change their ways – why would they after surviving as they had all their lives – and the humans would not rest until they’d killed the man-eating beasts. Now that the location of the island was known, John knew that the Sirens’ home was no longer safe.

However, if John did nothing, if he allowed the Sirens to be taken to the king, to be kept as pets, or playthings, or weapons, or whatever was in store for them, John would be dooming them to a life of slavery and misery. Sherlock, with his vibrant, brilliant mind, would surely wither away, and John would never see him again. This entire voyage would become nought but a memory, a fading dream, and John would return to his small bedsit alone. 

Remembering Irene’s request last time he had seen her, he grabbed her a strip of salt-cured beef before making his way to the brig.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing a lot of the Watsons lately,” she commented as John walked in. 

“Oh,” John said, brow furrowing. “Has Harry been here again?”

Irene smiled at him and stood in one swift movement, and John noticed that while her hands were still tied behind her back, her feet were free. The burlap slippers stopped her talons from clicking on the floor as she walked towards John, and he was surprised to see that she was now dressed. A white under-dress, undoubtedly one of Harry’s, now provided the Siren with some modesty. When Irene saw John eyeing it, she cocked a hip coquettishly.

“Do you like it?” she simpered. “It was a gift.” 

“A gift?”

“Well, I’m meant to return it,” she amended, nuzzling the fabric at her shoulder, “but it smells so nice, I don’t think I shall.”

“Well, you’re less likely to distract the guards now, at any rate,” John remarked, bemused about what Harry’s intentions were. 

He was prepared to have the cell door unlocked so he could hand Irene the meat, but Irene just leaned close to the bars, as if she wished to kiss him through them, and opened her mouth. Eyebrows raised, John placed the end of the meat strip in her mouth, and with a gleam in her eye, she snapped her jaw shut, sharp teeth cutting through the tough meat like butter. 

The lack of intimidation he felt was largely thanks to the bars separating them.

He fed her the rest of the piece that way, wary of her teeth. When she was done, she licked the salt from her lips. “Thanks.”

John nodded. Now that he’d done her a favour, she could do one for him. He leaned in closer to the bars to ask, “Who is Redbeard?”

Irene reared back a bit. “Who told you about that? Was it Mycroft?”

“Mycroft mentioned it, yes.”

“What did she say?”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re all a very curious lot, aren’t you. She said that I am not Redbeard.”

“Did she?” Irene scanned John speculatively. Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. Are you Sherlock’s new pet?” 

“Pet?” John parroted. “Is that what Redbeard is?”

“Was,” Irene corrected, slinking back to sit with her back against the wall. John followed so he could hear her, kneeling down next to her. “Redbeard was a mutt that Sherlock saved from a shipwreck when we were still young. He was quite fond of it, as I recall. He’d fetch fish for it and play with it – though he’d never let his sisters join, of course. Redbeard was _his_.” Irene rolled her eyes. “Anyway, aboard the next ship that we took –” John shook his head at her dispassionate phrasing, “—some of the humans were ill. We had never been exposed to illness or disease before, but we soon found that even our superior physiology is not immune. I got sick,” Irene scowled. “And because Mycroft shares my cave, she fell ill as well. We found ourselves incapacitated by aches and chills, too weak to fly or hunt.” Her eyes were glassy as she remembered. “Sherlock was forced to provide for us, but he could hardly catch enough for the three of us, never mind the dog as well. After a week of suffering, Sherlock could no longer bear to watch the dog starve to death, so he killed it. He never told us how, all I know was that the next day there was no more barking or whining from Sherlock’s cave.” Irene looked John dead in the eyes then. “He sacrificed Redbeard to save his sisters.”

John swallowed thickly, affected despite himself. No man should have to put down his own dog. He cleared his throat and broke the intense eye contact.

“Wait,” John said suddenly, a thought occurring. “How could Sherlock keep a dog alive, but not a human?”

Irene’s brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

“On your rocks. He was able to keep a dog as a pet but all of the humans he’s tried to…to take care of, so to speak…they’ve all died, haven’t they?”

Irene nodded. “I’ve wondered that too, actually. The only explanation I have is that the island is naturally hostile to humans. Mummy obviously hated humans, or at least was afraid of what you’d do to us – rightly it seems.” She looked around herself at the surrounding cage. “I wouldn’t have put it past her to infuse the rocks with some sort of poison for humans – she was a goddess you know.”

“Huh,” John replied, trying to keep an open mind and not immediately reject the ridiculous sounding theory. After a moment he returned to the original subject. “So, what? I’m Sherlock’s pet?” John made a moue of distaste. “But Mycroft said I’m _not_ Redbeard.”

“Oddly sentimental of her, and I find myself in agreement.”

“With what? What does it mean?”

“You’ll figure it out,” she smirked and glanced at the guard, who was watching them curiously. “But I’ll tell you one thing,” she whispered, leaning closer to the bars.

John leaned in to hear her, aware of the guard trying to eavesdrop. He could feel her breath against his ear.

“Sherlock’s always been possessive of his pets,” she hissed.

A sharp pain on his ear had John rearing back in alarm, a short cry passing his lips. He clapped a hand over his ear and found that it came away bloody.

“Oi!” the guard shouted as he rushed forward, sword extended. 

“It was just a little love nip!” Irene protested, pouting, pulling away from the bars to avoid the weapon pointed at her.

John grabbed the hand that was offered to pull himself to standing. “I’m fine,” he dismissed, waving a hand as the sailor crowded him to check the injury. “My fault – I shouldn’t have gotten so close,” he smiled deprecatingly. 

“That looks a right mess, doc,” the guard worried.

“I’m fine,” John said again. “Doesn’t even sting anymore,” he lied, trying to escape the man’s concern. 

He nodded uncertainly and then looked at Irene with disgust on his face. “You’d best learn to behave, Miss Bird, or you won’t last long where you’re going.”

It was with Irene’s tinkling laugh following him that John left the brig. He went straight for his medkit in the sleeping quarters and grabbed some gauze to hold against his ear, stopping the warm drop of blood he felt slowly making its way down his neck. For several minutes he sat, waiting for the bleeding to stop and trying to calm his breathing and pulse. His hand wasn’t shaking at all.

John didn’t know what to do.

The Sirens were savage, Irene had just proved as much. The sisters especially. They killed and rejoiced in the killing. But they were also intelligent, willful creatures, able to rationalize and create bonds – for the siblings loved each other and no one would convince John otherwise. If they were to return to their rocks, where they were most powerful, surely more humans would die. Or, in time, the Sirens would die, when sailors gathered the courage to attack again, this time giving no quarter. 

Was the only other option to enslave them? Whenever John imagined them being forced to submit to another’s will, a feeling of wrongness overwhelmed him. How could humans hope to contain such raw power and exotic beauty? What right did they have? The crew had managed it for five days, but not without heavy casualties - and the Sirens were injured. 

The right to fight to protect yourself – that John understood. But enslaving, or torturing – that John could not condone.

So what was left to do? 

He was distracted from his thinking by the approach of his sister. “Harry,” he greeted, standing and stopping her. In her hands was water and a couple of biscuits, her path leading to the brig. “If you’re going to feed Irene, I’ve just come from there.”

Her eyes zeroed in on his neck and the bloody gauze. “Oh, John! What happened?” 

“Er, nothing,” he hedged. “Just nicked myself on a…er, rough beam.”

Harry stared at him hard. “You’re a terrible liar, Johnny.”

“Look, you don’t need to check on Irene, is my point.”

“Well, maybe I just want to talk to her,” Harry argued. “It’s nice having another girl around for company.”

 _What sort of company?_ he wanted to ask. “I don’t think she wants to see anyone, actually,” he said weakly, trying to avoid a tantrum.

Harry narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “You’re a terrible liar,” she repeated. “You just don’t want me to see her.” She scowled. “You’re as bad as William, telling me what I can and can’t do!”

“He will find out, Harry.” 

Harry looked away mulishly. 

John sighed, knowing when not to push. Harry had always and would always do just as she liked. “I’ve got to find Stamford,” he said, and left to do just that.

As he walked onto the deck, the lack of movement made him pause. John approached a sailor lazing against the railing, basking in the sun. “What’s going on?”

“No wind,” he grumbled without opening his eyes.

And it was true, John realized. The pleasant breeze from earlier was gone, the clouds hanging motionless in the sky. A small smile flitted across his face as he knocked on the sickbay door – no wind meant no travel, which gave John more time.

“Stamford, can you take a look at something for me?” John asked as he opened the door.

Stamford looked at him in surprise, but it was Sherlock that caught John’s attention. The Siren was sitting rigidly on the cot, quivering, staring at John with dilated pupils. 

“Don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Stamford mused, noticing John’s attention. “He was fine a second ago.”

“John,” Sherlock started, voice tight, but John just shook his head at him and ignored the affronted look he received. 

“Could you just check my ear, mate?” John insisted, not entering the sickbay. “Maybe out in the sunlight?”

“Sure, what happened?” Stamford asked, stepping just outside to peer at John’s sore ear. Sherlock stood as well, but he stayed just inside the sickbay when John gave him a hard look.

“Nicked myself on a rough plank of wood,” John said, sticking to his story.

Gentle fingers grazed the cartilage. “This looks like a bite mark!”

Sherlock twitched.

“Does it?” John coughed.

“Well it’s mostly stopped bleeding,” Stamford reassured. “S’not deep, just broke the skin.”

“Right, good then. Can I talk to you actually?” John asked, closing the sickbay door on Sherlock’s furious face. He’d still be able to hear them through the door, but Stamford didn’t know that.

“Now?” Stamford asked, incredulous. 

“Look,” John said lowly, leaning in closer to his friend. “What we’re doing – it’s not right.”

“What’s not?”

“The Sirens are intelligent beings, Stamford. And we’re transporting them like cattle. We don’t even know what we’re sending them to, but we know it won’t be good. It’s not right.”

“Watson, mate. What are you on about? They’re killers. They’re not even human. What they _are_ is not right,” Stamford replied quietly.

John shook his head. “I know they’re dangerous, but I would not wish slavery and torture on my most hated enemy. Please, Stamford, help me.”

“Help you? With what?” he asked, eyes wide. 

John took a deep breath. “I plan to mutiny.”

Stamford stared, mute. 

“I cannot follow through with this mission. I cannot agree with what we’re doing. Perhaps we can teach them morality, they can learn the ways of civilization. Sherlock – he’s brilliant, he yearns to learn. We can take the ship, free them elsewhere, give them the opportunity to live real lives.” John was rambling now, begging for understanding. If John were to carry out his plan, he would need help, and Stamford was his only real ally on-board. He just needed to appeal to the strong empathy John knew Stamford had.

“Watson, I had no idea you felt so strongly –”

“I will not stand by and watch as unnecessary harm is brought to a living being.”

They were silent for several moments, John willing Stamford to see his perspective, praying that his trust was not misplaced. 

“You intend to do this regardless of me,” Stamford assumed.

John nodded. “Your experience and input would be most appreciated.” Stamford hesitated still, so John continued quickly. “You need not decide right now. Take the day to consider and meet with me tonight. But, please,” John gripped his arm, “speak of it to no one.”

“Watson, I understand your concern for the Sirens – hell, I even like Sherlock – but you must know what you ask of me. I am not willing to risk my life and freedom for them. Mutiny ends in a walk off the plank or a life behind bars.”

“No, if we plan correctly, your involvement need not be known. You will be viewed an innocent.”

“And you as well?”

“Of course,” John agreed quickly. In truth, John would rather go to prison than back to his miserable bedsit, back to looming debt, sleepless nights and a hand that trembled like an autumn leaf. He hadn’t felt this alive since before being invalided, and he did not intend to give it up. If that meant leaving everything behind to help the Sirens begin their new lives, he would do it. Without hesitation he would do it.

As long as Sherlock would have him. 

“Don’t do anything without me,” Stamford warned. “Wait until tonight and we will plan something together. I won’t have you doing some foolhardy plan alone.”

John couldn’t stop a smile from splitting his face. “Thanks, mate, that means a lot to me.”

Stamford slapped his back affectionately. “You always were a softie, Watson. If I didn’t know your reputation with the ladies I’d say you fancied the bloke!” he teased.

Awkwardly, John laughed appropriately in response. “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

“I know you are,” Stamford agreed. “I think I’ll grab myself my lunch ration. See you tonight.”

John nodded and watched him go. With a deep breath to prepare himself, he entered the sickbay.

The moment the door closed behind him, John was crowded back against it. The Siren’s eyes were black, his feathers puffed up aggressively in agitation. 

“Sherlock!” John protested, but the Siren wasn’t actually touching him. Warm breath huffed against his sore ear before a wet tongue darted out to taste. John gasped in shock and arousal, and let his head fall back against the door. A low growl rumbled into his ear and John had to lock his suddenly weak knees.

“Irene,” Sherlock hissed like a curse. “How dare she taste you.”

Swallowing with difficulty, sure that Sherlock could see and hear his pulse thundering in his neck, John tried to reassure his wild Siren. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think she did it just to taste – I’m quite certain she had an ulterior motive.” 

_Sherlock’s always been possessive of his pets._

Was that really all John was? Surely the Siren had been with countless men and women, all beautiful or interesting or brilliant. What did he see in John, a plain man with no prospects, a stiff shoulder and of average intelligence? For all he knew, he was just a passing fancy for Sherlock, but it was hard to keep that in mind as Sherlock ran his tongue from the base of John’s neck up to his ear. Licking his blood, John realized. John jerked in surprise and strong hands clamped onto his shoulders, holding him in place.

“God, Sherlock.” This sudden assault was a little surprising. Sherlock had touched him before, had slept on him for God’s sake, but this was undeniably more intense, and John wondered if his spilt blood made the Siren more feral. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock ignored him and ran his tongue over his neck a few more times. The saliva made the ambient air cold against John’s skin, raising gooseflesh in reaction. John stroked Sherlock’s good wing soothingly, loving the feel of silky feathers under his fingers. Gradually, the puffed-up feathers settled, and John knew the Siren was calming. 

With a sigh, Sherlock leaned his forehead on John’s shoulder. 

“Better?” John asked.

Sherlock smoothed his hands down John’s arms until he could intertwine their fingers, shocking John with the sentimentality of the gesture.

“Really, I’m fine. It barely even hurt.”

Sherlock lifted his head so he could look at John, his expression neutral save the softness John could see around his eyes. “You will help us,” Sherlock murmured, eyes searching John’s.

John squeezed his hands reassuringly. “Yes. I meant what I said to Stamford.”

“You trust him?”

“He’s the most gentle and kind man I’ve had the pleasure of knowing,” John assented. “Besides, he owes me,” John grinned. “When we were at uni together, I once helped him woo a girl, Lisbeth, by pretending to steal her purse and then letting him catch me. It took an hour of me convincing him beforehand for him to punch me in the face, and even when he did, it was the most pathetic knock I’d ever felt. I didn’t even bruise!”

Quizzical eyes scanned his face. “You let him strike you to help him gain a sexual partner?”

John laughed. “Sure. Chivalry, displays of masculine strength – ladies love that kind of thing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and his head tilted. He pressed forward again, this time insinuating a long thigh between John’s legs. “Just the ladies?” he rumbled over John’s head, their height difference placing that long, pale neck in John’s line of sight. 

“Some of the lads, too,” John admitted breathlessly. Making a split second decision, John pressed his lips to a beauty mark that caught his eye, once, twice, three times. 

Sherlock grabbed his wrists and pulled him. Gracelessly, John followed him to the cot and straddled the man where he sat. Sherlock gazed up at him with guileless eyes as John stroked his cheekbones.

“Such beauty,” John whispered.

One corner of those full lips tugged up. Long fingers reached out to trace John’s lips. “Such courage,” Sherlock replied. “Such strength. You are a paradox, John Watson. You are a killer that wishes to heal. You thrive in the fight but detest the resulting deaths.”

Those roaming fingers offered too much temptation. John opened his lips to suck a ring finger into his mouth and felt a little spark of victory when Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered with pleasure. John felt so alive, his body and mind aflame under the Siren’s piercing gaze. Never had his attraction been so great with Mary. 

He leaned forward to kiss those full lips, pleased when Sherlock pushed up to meet him halfway. John let his fingertips trail down Sherlock’s neck, over his clavicles and over his bare chest, revelling in the smooth skin. When his fingers reached the tight buds of Sherlock’s nipples, the Siren gasped and gripped John’s hips to pull him closer. Their groins rubbed together deliciously and John moaned, arching his back a bit. 

Sherlock broke away from the kiss gasping for air. “You asked me before what I wanted.”

John nodded and leaned in to suck an earlobe. His thumbs continued to rub circles on Sherlock’s nipples. Strong fingers squeezed John’s hips.

“I would have you stay with me on the rocks.”

John paused in his ministrations and pulled back to meet Sherlock’s hopeful gaze. He suddenly understood what Mycroft meant by her comment that he wasn’t Redbeard. She had not been implying that John wasn’t Sherlock’s pet, but rather that John wasn’t meant to be the sacrifice. “I could not stay there.”

“I know it would be dull, but together it would be bearable,” Sherlock insisted, a pleading note entering his tone. “And we would not have to stay there forever. We could escape on the next passing ship, and go wherever it takes us.”

“You misunderstand,” John said gently. “I could not stay on your rocks because I would die.”

Anger and hurt flashed across Sherlock’s expression and were gone. “I realize you think I am incapable,” he began coldly. 

“No! It’s not that. You were able to take care of Redbeard admirably, but don’t you think it odd –”

“Did Irene tell you about Redbeard?” he spat. “She had no right –”

“Sherlock --”

“I would care for you, John!”

“Like you did with all your other conquests?” John snapped, regretting it when Sherlock’s eyes shuttered. He continued with a gentler tone. “Did you ever find it strange that your dog could survive, but no matter what you tried, humans could not? The rocks are your home, meant to keep humans away. I could not stay there with you, Sherlock.” Under him, Sherlock was tense and pale, so John got up reluctantly and sat next to him instead.

“You do not intend to take us back,” Sherlock whispered, eyes wide.

John pursed his lips. “I intend to help you take control of the ship, without harming or killing anyone,” he stressed. “After that, I suppose I can’t stop you from going where you wish, but it was not my intention to return you there, no.”

“Then where would we go instead?” Sherlock demanded, ire entering his tone.

“Anywhere,” John shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I just know that I will not hand you over to the king, and I do not wish for you to return to the rocks where you and your sisters will continue to ravage every passing vessel.”

“You would trick me,” Sherlock spat, standing to put some distance between them.

John shook his head, resisting the urge to reach out. “No, I was going to explain. If you really wish to go back to those hated rocks, I cannot stop you.”

“And what would become of you then? You would return home and find yourself another wife?” Sherlock was turned away, but John could see the tension in the muscles of his back, in the fists clenched at his sides. His healthy wing was imposingly immense.

“The punishment for mutiny is often death. As I am the captain’s brother-in-law, I would likely only be imprisoned.”

Sherlock whirled to face him, his face incredulous. “Why would you do this?”

John looked away, forever uncomfortable with discussions of emotion. “If I do nothing, it is highly likely that you and your sisters will be killed, tortured or imprisoned. As you have seen, humans do not take kindly to that which is unknown, or that which frightens them. I _cannot_ simply do nothing. If you truly wish to return to those rocks, then as I cannot stop you, I will help you and face the consequences, because I would rather do this one good thing for you than go back to what I was before. You’ve made me feel more alive in the past days than I have since the war.” 

For a long moment there was silence, and John could not gather the courage to check Sherlock’s expression. It was pathetic really, the things that John would do for him. But John truly had nothing to lose, had nothing to go back to. If Sherlock rejected him…John did not want to think about it.

Shadow fell over him as Sherlock stepped in front of him, but John did not look up until a large hand brushed his cheek. “I do not deserve such selflessness,” Sherlock rumbled, eyes soft. “I am a selfish creature, John. I will take advantage.”

John smirked. “I wish you would,” he murmured, intentionally lowering his voice. He turned his face to place a kiss in the middle of Sherlock’s large palm, smiling at the sharp intake of breath. 

With a swiftness that was flattering, Sherlock pushed John to lie on the cot, covering his body with his own. His left wing unfurled to wrap around him, creating an intimate space between them. Eager, warm lips pressed against his and John moaned appreciatively, reaching up to comb his fingers through thick curls before stroking along that huge wing. He started at Sherlock’s back, where human flesh merged with feathers, and slid his fingertips along humerus and then radius until he could not reach any further. A shudder of pleasure wracked Sherlock’s frame and the Siren pressed his hips ardently against John’s.

“You like that, hm?” John murmured, and repeated the motion, following the grain of the feathers. 

Sherlock hissed, fingers pulling at John’s tunic. “Off.”

John chuckled and arched his back to give Sherlock better access, letting impatient fingers divest him of his shirt. He spread his legs to better allow Sherlock to settle between them, moaning at the feel of the Siren’s hot erection pressing against his own through their trousers. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, thrusting shallowly. 

With John’s chest bare, Sherlock, of course, went straight for the scar on his left shoulder. Fingers and tongue gently traced its shape as John waited patiently, stroking the Siren’s hair.

“What caused this?” Sherlock murmured, stroking the small crater in John’s skin where he had no feeling. 

“A spear shot from a Mysorean rocket. It was the subsequent infection rather than the initial wound that nearly killed me.” 

One last kiss was pressed to the old wound before Sherlock moved on without further questions, for which John was unspeakably grateful. A brief dalliance with his nipples revealed their lack of sensitivity before Sherlock moved lower, counting his ribs and pressing kisses down his abdomen. Anticipation had John breathing heavily, and he watched in a daze as Sherlock pulled down his trousers to free his cock. It was clear what Sherlock intended to do, but living on a ship did not offer much opportunity to properly bathe.

“Sherlock,” John protested. “You don’t –” John cut off with a choked sound as Sherlock pressed his lips to the base of John’s cock, burying his nose in sandy curls. “God, Sherlock –” 

Pale eyes looked up at him with a mixture of heat and amusement. Sherlock proceeded to bestow wet, teasing kisses all along John’s cock, and John felt himself throb with arousal. When Sherlock reached the tip, he sucked briefly to collect the dripping pre-cum, and John couldn’t stop his pelvis from jerking. Sharp teeth nipped his hip in chastisement, before more gentle kisses were pressed to the underside of John’s cock. By the time Sherlock was satisfied, John was speechless with arousal, his thighs twitching and sweat beading at his hairline. Desperate for some actual suction or friction, he groaned in displeasure when Sherlock pulled away and crawled up his body. 

“Sharp teeth,” Sherlock offered as apology and explanation.

That was a terrible reason to deny him Sherlock's mouth, and John showed this by kissing Sherlock passionately. With gentle movements, he traced the Siren’s teeth with his tongue, and Sherlock moaned into his mouth. 

“Of course that would only excite you,” Sherlock huffed. He made up for his previous tease with a blindingly hot roll of his hips and a scratch of teeth against the tendon in John’s neck. 

John tried reaching for Sherlock’s trousers, desperate for the feel of bare skin against his, but Sherlock gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head effortlessly. John bucked in retaliation, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s through Sherlock’s trousers.

“I wish to take you,” Sherlock rumbled into John’s ear, his spine rolling sensuously to press his entire body against John’s. 

“You already have me,” John gasped back. Sherlock’s hips pressed him hard into the cot in reaction, a hiss of pleasure escaping his clenched teeth. “But you can fuck me,” John offered, and laughed at the way Sherlock scrambled up. 

With rough movements, Sherlock quickly stripped off his trousers, leaving him gorgeously bare before John. “Turn over,” Sherlock ordered, but John sat up instead.

“In a minute,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s left pectoral. Beneath his skin, John could feel Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat, identical to any human’s. With soft lips and playful tongue, John flicked at one nipple, then the other, enjoying the way Sherlock’s hands held John’s head against his chest for more. John licked his way down a hard sternum and a flat belly, feeling Sherlock’s lungs expanding and contracting rapidly. He paused with his mouth hovering over Sherlock cock, glans fully exposed and glistening with arousal. John stroked the vee of his pelvis with his thumbs and exhaled hot breath over the tip.

“John,” Sherlock choked, hips twitching.

John decided to take pity on the man and show him how it was meant to be done. He licked his lips and in one swift movement, swallowed Sherlock’s cock down to the base. 

An exclamation of pleasure, quickly cut off, burst from Sherlock’s lips. John pulled back, sucking as he went, until just the tip remained in his mouth, and then he pushed Sherlock’s pelvis forward again with his hands on his arse.

“Oh, fuck, John –” 

John let Sherlock thrust into his mouth a few times before adding some tongue, flicking at his fraenulum and stroking the vein on the underside of his cock. Under his hands, Sherlock’s buttocks and hamstrings were flexing powerfully, his abs tensing and his breath huffing in and out of him rapidly. Another half-a-dozen thrusts and Sherlock was tugging on John’s hair.

“Oh, stop, John, I can’t—”

With a lewd suck, John pulled off, wiping away the saliva on his chin. Above him, Sherlock was flushed, eyes blown wide and hair wild, a light sheen of sweat covering his body. John wanted him desperately. 

In a move that he hoped was graceful but knew wasn’t, John turned over onto his stomach, resting his head on his folded arms. “Well, come on then,” he prompted. 

Instantly, Sherlock descended. He pressed his lips to John’s nape before making his way down his spine. He stroked John’s shoulder blades and John wondered if the Siren found the lack of wings odd. More kisses down his spine, lower, lower, and John pressed his arse up whorishly, feeling himself hard and leaking against the cot. When Sherlock got to his tailbone, John spread his legs in invitation. It had been years since he had indulged in this act, and he found himself impatient to get on with it. Thumbs spread him open and a wet mouth continued lower, and god, John was so turned on. Sherlock spit and John swore as hot saliva found its mark. A single finger rubbed at his entrance, circling gently before pressing slightly and John groaned, muffling himself against his forearm. 

“God, John,” Sherlock moaned, pulsing his finger gently. “You’re so tight.”

“It’s been ages,” John gasped, resisting the temptation to just grab his cock and wank himself off. He forced himself to relax into it, just feel the pleasure. 

Sherlock’s hand reached under him to stroke his cock, and John pressed into it desperately. He was so hard and wet and – oh, god, Sherlock was rubbing at the head and John was going to come if he didn’t stop. Quickly, the hand was gone and John slumped in disappointment. Sherlock chuckled darkly and pressed his now pre-cum coated fingers against John’s entrance again.

“Oh, God,” John moaned. More saliva and Sherlock was pressing his finger harder, harder. John forced himself to relax, to bear down onto it until the digit was pushing in, in. “Yes,” John gasped.

John could feel the knuckle push through the ring of muscle with every thrust of that long finger, sending little shocks of pleasure up his spine. After a few minutes of that John ordered, “Another.” Two fingers were a bit of a stretch, but then Sherlock curled his fingers just right and pleasure bloomed deep within him. “Yes, there!” Long fingers stroked his prostate gently, and John quickly felt himself losing control. “Oh, God, stop or I’ll come.”

With a pained groan Sherlock pressed his forehead against the small of John’s back, sharp teeth nibbling at John’s arse. A third finger and John was really feeling the stretch, but he wanted this, God how he wanted this. 

“Now, I’m ready, come on,” he ordered in a rush, feeling like he would burst any moment.

Sherlock pulled out his fingers and John moaned at the loss. He noticed that Sherlock’s hands were quivering slightly. “You should turn around,” Sherlock recommended, voice rough.

Surprised, John did so. “You alright?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded shakily, hands squeezing his own thighs. “Seeing your face will help my control,” he admitted.

John was shocked by this, thinking of how gentle Sherlock had been up to that point. When he looked closer though, he could see the wild look in the Siren’s eyes, the quivering tension in his muscles, the hunger in the way he licked his lips. “Alright,” John agreed. “We can take things slow.”

Sherlock nodded and John pulled the taller man down on top of him. John spit in his own hand and then reached for Sherlock’s cock to mix the saliva with Sherlock’s pre-cum, slicking him up. Sherlock stared at him, painfully intimate, as John led Sherlock to his entrance. Sherlock eyes fluttered closed as he nudged at John’s hole, the tendons in his neck straining as he fought not to just thrust forward. 

“That’s it,” John praised, forcing himself to relax at the intrusion. Slowly, inexorably, Sherlock pushed forward, and John gave in. He took it, and took it, even as the stretch burned, giving a sharper edge to the pleasure. When Sherlock’s hips met John’s arse it felt like a victory. 

Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck, nipping at the skin desperately. He slowly pulled out to the tip, where John paused him. He spit in his hand again and reached down to add the slick to Sherlock’s erection, making the next inwards thrust smoother.

“Yes,” John gasped in approval. “That’s it, that’s perfect.”

Sherlock continued to thrust slowly, deep thrusts that had John’s feet tingling with pleasure, but after a few moments he was ready for more.

“You can go harder,” he allowed, running his hands over Sherlock’s feverish skin. When nothing changed he stroked Sherlock’s hair to get his attention. “Sherlock?” With his eyes squeezed tightly shut, it seemed the Siren couldn’t even hear him. John grabbed a handful of feathers and tugged. 

With a wild gasp, Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“A little pain is not a bad thing, love,” John murmured. “You won’t break me.”

The next thrust was hard, and John pressed his mouth to Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle his shout. It seemed permission was all Sherlock needed, because the new pace he set was fast and rough. The sounds he made didn’t sound human, sibilant hisses and rumbling growls. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s hips and dug his nails into his wings, feeling a thrill at the snarl that earned him. Sherlock gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, and the change of angle had ecstasy exploding through John’s body.

“Yes! Yes, _there_ , fuck!” John spit, feeling his orgasm rapidly approaching. It was rough and John knew his body would hurt in the aftermath, but at the moment he could not care less. He was so close, Sherlock’s hot length stroking all the right places, again and again, skin slapping against skin, Sherlock’s basso growl in his ear, and, God, he could feel himself tightening, his balls heavy and full – 

Without even a touch to his cock, John clenched hard. He sunk his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle his shout as he came, making a mess between them. His muscles clamped down on Sherlock’s erection, drawing out his own pleasure and milking Sherlock’s cock. 

“John—” Sherlock choked out, and his hips jerked with tight, compulsive thrusts, before pressing in deep and freezing. 

John moaned drunkenly as Sherlock emptied himself in John’s body, twitching aftershocks shooting sparks of pleasure up his spine. Sherlock shuddered on top of him, his hips thrusting one last time, and then he seemed to melt, his body losing all tension as he draped himself over John. A wet kiss was pressed to John’s jaw.

“That…was amazing,” John sighed happily, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s lower back. 

“Do you know you say that out loud?” Sherlock asked, voice deliciously rough.

John hummed in assent. “I’m probably not going to stop.” 

“That’s…fine,” Sherlock agreed, sounding surprised. Carefully he pulled out, noticing John’s wince and kissing him briefly. As he pulled away, John noticed the red indents on his shoulder that perfectly matched John’s teeth.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “Looks like I was the one that lost some control there.”

Sherlock tried to see the mark but couldn’t, settling for running his fingers over it smugly. “I like it.”

John rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.” He got up – and yep, he was feeling it already – to grab some gauze to clean them up, ignoring Sherlock’s sound of protest. “One moment,” he chided gently. He wiped himself off before doing the same for Sherlock, careful of his oversensitivity. When he was done he settled into Sherlock’s embrace on the cot, enjoying the warmth of body wrapped around him. It was quite small for two men, but they made it work.

Sherlock shifted in discomfort and reached behind him. 

“What?” John asked. From between his back and the wall, Sherlock pulled out the textbook John had given him earlier, and John laughed. “How did we not notice that?”

“We were preoccupied.”

John took the book from him and flipped it open, scanning over his own scrawled writing. Much of it was text-related notes, but some of it contained his errant thoughts – silly poems and snatches of ideas for mystery stories he liked to imagine he would write one day.

“Victor was a writer, too,” Sherlock murmured, looking at the book over John’s shoulder. “He wrote me a poem actually.”

John squeezed one of the hands that were wrapped around him. “I’m sorry for the type of world you were born into, the circumstances that led you here.”

A bony chin rested on John’s chin as strong arms hugged him closer. “I’m not,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible. 

They rested like that until hunger and paranoia that they would be found out forced them to redress. 

“When we’re far away from here, we will be able to do this whenever we like,” John consoled as Sherlock sulked, watching John refasten his tunic.

“I’m beginning to think we should just leave my sisters behind and escape on our own,” Sherlock suggested. “We’ve been together since birth anyway – long enough to test anyone’s patience.”

“Ha-ha,” John replied leaning closer. “You three love each other so much it’s almost sickening.”

Sherlock made a face at him. “No need to be offensive.”

“Sentiment,” John breathed, and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s eager lips. John could feel fingers brushing his left shoulder blade.

“You were shot from behind,” Sherlock murmured, feeling the scar.

John nodded, pressing a kiss to a collarbone. “I was tending to a fallen soldier, crouching over him, when I was struck. I never did find out what happened to him.”

Sherlock was silent a moment. “Your caring for someone nearly got you killed.”

“My caring for people has saved many lives,” John refuted. “It was the man who shot the spear that nearly killed me.”

“Every time your attention was on caring for another, you were in danger,” Sherlock insisted, and John didn’t think they were talking about the war anymore. 

John tried to pull back to see his face, but Sherlock held him closely. “But I was never alone,” John argued. “My brothers-in-arms had my back, too. We had to trust each other, because although we were distracted by each other’s well-being, we were stronger together. Does that scare you?”

Sherlock’s biceps tensed around John’s back.

They both startled by a knock at the door. John pulled away again and this time Sherlock let him.

“Stamford!” John greeted as he opened the door, noticing the still light sky behind his friend. “You’re a bit early.”

“Aye,” Stamford agreed, stepping back. “I think I’ve found something that will help us, I wanted you to take a look.”

“What, now?” John asked, stepping just out of the room.

“John,” Sherlock murmured behind him.

“It’s time sensitive,” Stamford insisted. “I’ve got Prescott to cover for you.”

John glanced at Prescott standing to the side silently, expression grim. John had not seen him before. He felt suddenly uneasy. The sickbay door opened outwards, so he could not see if someone was standing behind it. There was no logical reason for him to feel threatened, but John always listened to his instincts. He found himself spreading his feet and blocking the doorway, shielding Sherlock.

“What’s this about, Stamford?”

Stamford frowned. “I’d rather not say here, mate.”

John hesitated.

Several things happened in the next moment:

Stamford grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him forwards – bewildered, John let him.

Prescott darted behind John to block the sickbay door.

Another figure emerged from behind the open door.

John was struck on the back of the head.

“John!” Sherlock yelled as John fell to his knees, dazed but still conscious. Dimly, he noticed numerous other sailors running to the sickbay, but John was too dizzy to turn and see what was happening. Stamford pulled him up from where he was on his hands and knees on the deck and someone else grabbed his feet. There was a cacophony of shouts and snarling. John kicked out at the man at his feet, but the world lurched sickeningly and he groaned, vision going grey.

“You hit him too hard,” Stamford accused.

“The man’s been in the army – I didn’t want to give him the chance to turn around and shoot me,” another voice defended.

An enraged shriek pierced the air, inhuman and terrifying.

“Jesus Christ,” someone gasped. “Move, before he kills them all and breaks free.”

With his vision oscillating between black and blurry, John was helpless as he was carried into the bowels of the ship.

“Watch his head,” Stamford ordered.

“Careful,” Stamford ordered. 

“He’s heavy,” the other complained.

He was gently placed on a mat in a dark room. Upstairs on deck he could hear shouting. He tried not to throw up.

“Watson. Watson, I’m sorry. It’s for your own good.”

Stamford. Stamford had done this to him. _Not fair_ , John wanted to say. _You owe me for Lisbeth_.

And, God, Sherlock. What were they going to do to him? They didn’t understand him like John did.

“Sherlock,” he mumbled, disorientation muffling his voice. How hard had they hit him?

“I’m sorry, Watson,” Stamford said again.

John passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

“Where’s the bloody wind?” Prescott whined, lounging in a lifeboat like it was a hammock. “We’ve been drifting since yesterday.”

Scrubbing the deck harshly with a brush, Sebby scowled and wiped away the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, the stagnant air doing nothing to cool him. “The only wind I’m feeling is the wind you’re passing,” he snapped. 

“Oi!” Prescott heaved himself out of the lifeboat and pushed himself to his feet. “You gotta problem, mate?” He kicked the brush out of Sebby’s hand and loomed over him.

Sebby scrambled to his feet, hands trembling and muscles twitching. He so badly needed another hit. “I’ve had enough of your complaining!” he spat. “We’re stuck in the middle of the ocean and all I can hear is your pig voice.” 

With a snarl Prescott shoved Sebby against the railing. “How ‘bout I just feed you to one of our pretty guests and put you out of your misery, eh?”

“I think it’s the Sirens that stole the wind,” another voice piped up, drawing the quarreling sailors’ gazes upward. Climbing the rigging like a monkey, a young lad looked down at the two men. “We’re cursed.”

“Aye, we have a woman on-board, too,” another sailor put in fretfully.

“And we set sail on a Thursday,” said a third.

Everyone looked at him blankly.

He glanced at their faces nervously. “Thursday is Thor’s day – god of thunder and storms. Bad luck!” he insisted.

Prescott made a face. “How does that make sense? There ain’t no storms. There ain’t even any wind.” 

“Well maybe he can stop storms, too!”

“Would you lot shut up!” Thomas hissed. He was leaning against the captain’s closed door. 

Silence fell over the crew. They eyed at each other uncertainly as Thomas pressed his ear to the door.

“ _…can’t control everyone!_ ” Harriet Hale’s voice drifted through the door and everyone inched closed to hear. “ _You can’t just lock someone up when they don’t agree with you!_ ”

“ _We’re just trying to keep him safe, Missus,_ ” Stamford consoled.

The captain’s voice cut in. “ _Harriet, your brother’s well-being is at risk. He is being influenced by the Sirens. His will is not strong enough to resist_ —”

Mrs. Hale laughed incredulously. “ _John is the most willful person I know._ ”

“ _So you believe he is choosing to disobey orders, then? That he refuses to properly restrain his captive, that he willfully sacrifices his rations to feed them like royalty?_ ”

All the sailors on deck strained to hear, their various tasks forgotten, but none could catch a reply to that. Mrs. Hale was silent. 

“ _Now, I know John is a very loyal, respectful man, and that he would never behave in such an insubordinate fashion. Therefore, the only rational explanation is that his mind is being corrupted by the beasts._ ”

“ _He’ll be free to go once we reach port and hand over the Sirens, right, Cap’n?_ ” Stamford questioned.

“ _Of course._ ”

The captain’s doors flew open then, and Thomas just barely avoided a broken nose as he jumped back. With a flurry of movement, the sailors all scurried back to their tasks of scrubbing and mopping and polishing as Mrs. Hale strode onto the deck, expression thunderous. A collective shiver passed through the men as she stalked passed them and down to the deck below. The only thing worse than having a woman on-board was having an _angry_ woman on-board.

Prescott followed her with hungry eyes. “Cap’n oughta put her in her place,” he sneered and received a chorus of grunts in agreement.

*

Slumped against the wall, John stared blankly at nothing. His wrists and ankles were raw and bloody under the ropes that still bound him, though he had given up on his escape efforts some time ago. What was the point, when he had nowhere to escape to? He was stuck on this blasted ship, after all, with his backstabbing friend and a power-hungry captain. His sword and pistol were gone, the Sirens were still trapped and now John sat here in some storage room, useless.

“ _You had no right,_ ” he’d hissed at Stamford, when he’d regained consciousness with throbbing in his head and betrayal in his heart.

“ _I didn’t say a thing about the mutiny, Watson,_ ” Stamford had promised. “ _You’re blameless, you’re under the Siren’s influence. Please, I wish only to help._ ”

John, too angry to reply, had simply turned away, had listened as Stamford retreated and left him alone.

Once they reached port, John would be a free man. Free to go back to nothing. 

Returning to land without Sherlock at his side would only empathize what had been true since Mary’s death: that John was purposeless, directionless and alone.

Stamford had no idea what he had done. 

There was a guard standing outside the door, John knew. He could hear the odd cough and shuffle of movement. The room was dark, the only illumination provided by the sunlight peeking through the wood slats and the single spluttering lantern hanging on the wall. He shared the small space with dusty crates and piles of rope. There wasn’t even a rat to keep him company, only his cruel imagination. 

His mind cycled, unstoppable, though a disturbing sequence of images, all of Sherlock. He imagined the Siren tied up and gagged, being pushed through royal doors and never seen again. He imagined smooth, aristocrat hands stroking over non-consenting flesh, muscles that tensed and recoiled. He saw that strong body secured to an operating table, straps restraining his thrashing as he was dissected and studied. He envisioned a dark and dirty prison, that brilliant mind left to atrophy until it became a shadow of its former self. Unless Sherlock, unwilling to slowly waste away, did something desperate, something permanent. 

The longer the horrifying possibilities swirled through his mind, the more John curled into himself, shoulders hunched and head down. He had failed. Sherlock had asked for his help and he had failed. 

The fingers of his left hand trembled, and he clenched his hands together tightly.

*

The ship had been still for nearly twenty-four hours now. Mycroft had never known the sea to be so unnaturally calm.

She was beginning to suspect she knew the cause, and the idea that Mummy was watching over them was intimidating. The siblings hadn’t seen their mother in more years than were worth remembering, yet what else could cause the terrible stagnation in the air? What other being could possibly have that power? 

She supposed, considering the circumstances, it made sense that Mummy was now interjecting herself into their formally static lives. Never before had they left the rocks, and Mycroft finally understood why Mummy had been so adamant about their self-imposed isolation. Since leaving their haven they’d lost their Songs, they were being taken to some strange land, and they were prisoners to humans – it was downright undignified. 

It was also the most excitement the Sirens had seen in their long lifetimes. 

However, a Goddess, as proud and possessive as any mother, would not take kindly to the capture of her offspring, her ‘hatchlings’ as she’d once dubbed them fondly. To Mycroft, the stillness in the air felt like the calm before the storm.

Sherlock, of course, had taken to this adventure in the most dramatic manner possible. Not only had he gotten them into this mess, he’d also complicated matters, what with his little hissy fit the previous evening. After hearing said kerfuffle from her makeshift cell, Mycroft had deduced that Sherlock had let sentiment get the better of him. He’d been taken with that soldier boy from the start and, as per usual, his attractions brought him nothing but misery. It was frustrating to Mycroft, how her brother never learned. First with that simpering French lad, then the Italian musician, and the countless other men he had cloistered in his cave. Each one had entered besotted, and left with nought but their bones – quite literally. 

And now this John fellow. It would surely end in more tears. What was Sherlock planning to do? Run off with the man? Fly him back to the rocks?

Despite Sherlock’s stoicism and keenly analytical mind, Mycroft found him to be downright romantic at times.

At least Irene was above such things.

*

“They’ve imprisoned John!” Harry hissed to Irene, close to the cell bars so the guard wouldn’t overhear. “He’s so close-minded, so controlling. He has no right!”

“He’s a man, Harry,” Irene murmured. “He will do as he sees fit. The captain will not be disobeyed.”

“John, too, is a man,” Harry protested.

“John is an anomaly.”

“Your brother is a man.”

“Sherlock is as controlling as the worst of them. He just knows how to be subtle about getting what he wants.” She tilted her head. “Most of the time anyway.”

“This is my fault,” Harry whispered, crouching in front of Irene, face pressed against the bars. As she spoke, Irene dragged herself closer with her bound feet and hands. Her feathers were in complete disorder, her skin smudged with grime, yet still Harry found her beautiful. She was exotic, daring and unashamedly female. “I’m the reason John is here – this was meant to help him get better! And now he’s tied up like a villain. How his shoulder must ache,” Harry fretted, thinking of the wound that would never completely heal. 

“You must fight back, Harry,” Irene whispered, nearly close enough to touch.

“How can I? I’m just a woman amongst men.”

“It is precisely because you are a woman that they will not suspect you of treachery.”

Harry worried her bottom lip and looked away. Her little acts of rebellion against William – stealing his small change for herself, leaving the house at night to explore town without a chaperone, nicking a glass or four of that brandy he never drank – were nothing compared to what Irene was suggesting.

“William has dictated your life for years, will you really let him do the same to your brother?” Irene pushed. “John, a decorated soldier, worthy of respect, tied up like a dog? What is his crime?”

“His only crime is his kindness towards you and your siblings,” Harry agreed.

Irene lifted her chin. “We, too, are prisoners here. Let us help each other.” She leaned forward, bringing her lips closer to Harry’s. “Let us escape our prisons together,” she breathed, eyes dark and enthralling.

Harry licked her dry lips. “Yes. Yes, alright.”

“Go speak with my brother, we will need his help.”

“Where will we go?”

Irene brushed her lips quickly against Harry’s, leaning back again before the guard saw. “Wherever the wind takes us.”

*

He could smell them, the humans. Salty and hot, he could smell the blood and sweat of them, of the sailor on the other side of the door.  
He could hear them, too. Hear their breathing, their talking, their footsteps. They scurried around the ship like mice, directionless, trapped. They were as trapped as he was. They had done this to him, taken what was his.

John’s scent, mixed with Sherlock’s, still saturated the fibres of the cot, warming Sherlock’s lower abdomen with desire. It was a cruel trick done by his senses, having John’s scent but not _John_.

Sherlock had stopped growling about an hour ago, unable to ignore the rawness of his throat. He continued to jerk against his bonds, kicking at the door and knocking the chair into the desk. His wrists bled and his body was bruised, but he could not stop. He had to break free. He had to get him back. 

_John John John._ Possessive rage boiled his blood.

He thrashed and chewed on the gag.

Voices outside the door. Sherlock stilled.

The door was being unlocked. It was opening. Sherlock squinted in the sudden bright light, seeing only a silhouette until the door closed again. 

Her scent was the first thing he noticed, the undertones that contained a familiar John-note to them. Familiar but not. Not-John.

Sherlock growled again, the sound grating his throat. He jerked against the ropes, hoping to catch her with his feet, but she stayed out of reach. The sharp smell of her fear increased his frenzy, his desire to tear and shred. 

“Sherlock,” she hissed. 

He twisted his upper body, desperate to get lose. His broken wing hit the cot, flaring in pain, but he ignored it.

“Sherlock, stop. I’m John’s sister. I’m Harry.”

Sherlock snarled, never taking his eyes off her. He could practically taste her distress. 

Harry was silent for a moment, unsure what to do. Then her eyes narrowed and she moved quickly. She straddled the feral Siren, who was thrashing on the ground, and knelt to grab his hair. She yanked his head back none too gently and brought her face close to his. 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened in surprise and anger. She smelt like prey, yet she behaved like a predator. She was breathing very quickly, her face pale.

“Listen to me,” she hissed. 

Sherlock heard the words, but did not understand them. He jerked his head, tearing out some of his hair at the roots, but she did not release her grip.

“ _Sherlock._ ”

With her free hand, she stroked his face, from temple to cheekbone, wiping away a trickle of blood from a scrape on his forehead. Sherlock froze, the gentleness of the touch shocking him into stillness.

“Sherlock, John needs our help,” Harry’s eyes flicked between his, searching for lucidity, for comprehension. “He’s trapped and he needs our help. You can only help him if you’re thinking clearly.”

John needed him. Sherlock shuddered, warring with the rage and the blood-lust that consumed him. He focused on Harry’s worried face, her gentle hand on his cheek, her rough grip in his hair. Slowly, the red haze leaked out of his vision and he grunted in pain.

Instantly, Harry released her grip on his hair and moved to help him lean against the cot. He sat, breathing hard through his nose, until Harry removed his gag. “John,” he croaked, wincing at the pain in his throat.

“Will you help me get him back?” Harry whispered, leaning in close. He could still smell her, but the urge to bite, to kill, was not as strong.

“Release me,” he ordered. “I will take back what is mine.”

A small hand gripped his chin firmly, forcing him to look into blazing blue eyes. “John is not yours. John is John. He is his own person, just like you are your own person, just like I am my own person.”

Sherlock bared his teeth at her, his jaw aching to snap. Her words were nonsense. She did not understand.

“I will release you and your sisters if you help me free John, but he is not something for you to own, you hear me?”

She glared at him, and Sherlock realized that stubbornness was a familial trait. 

“You have spoken with my sisters?” he replied, ignoring her question.

Harry released his chin and sat on the ground next to him, scooching back to give him space. “With Irene. Mycroft is next on my list.”

Sherlock nodded, his brain already forming the beginnings of a plan as it cleared. Having Harry’s help would make all the difference. 

With the return of clarity came the self-loathing for his loss of control, which he forcefully pushed to the back of his mind. There wasn’t time for self-recriminating.

“Irene said to free you first and let you deal with John, while I release her and Mycroft. We’ll have to move quick.”

“Yes. I’m going to need your help with John’s guard, though.”

Harry nodded. “Alright. When? William, my husband, is getting anxious. Soon, he won’t allow me to leave the captain’s quarters at all.”

“As soon as possible. Tonight,” Sherlock decided. “But before you see Mycroft, you must fetch me something from John. A key.”

“A key?”

“For the morphine. We’re going to need it.”

Harry pursed her lips. “What will I tell the guard? I told him I was checking you to make sure you hadn’t too badly damaged yourself.” She scanned his body sceptically, taking in the cuts and bruises, the bloody wrists. “Good thing I did.”

“I would not be ungrateful for water,” Sherlock admitted, feeling the dryness of his mouth and throat.

Harry nodded. “Stop tugging on those,” she ordered, indicating his wrists, and departed.

With his mind mostly un-muddled, Sherlock realized several things: firstly, that the ship was not moving; secondly, that his wing ached almost as badly as when it had first been broken; and thirdly, that he no longer cared about getting back to the rocks.

What had started as simple attraction and a ploy to gain John’s trust had somehow turned into something entirely different. When he had seen John struck on the head, seen him collapse, he had reacted instinctually, unthinkingly. The rage as he’d attacked the aggressors had been all-consuming and, even now, just the memory of it had anger welling up inside of him. He forced it down ruthlessly. He would not be a slave to sentiment. 

_You already are_ , his mind whispered, and he nearly groaned. Somehow John, with the ease of his smile, the fierceness of his spirit, the gentleness of his hands, had wormed his way under Sherlock’s defenses. John had slipped past the brambles and burrs of Sherlock’s initial prickly interest, through the blazes of Sherlock’s instinctual possessiveness, and straight into Sherlock’s vulnerable center.

He was ashamed to admit that he could not recall what had happened after the humans had blocked him from John, but from the state of his person, they had bound him thoroughly and roughly. He must have taken total leave of his senses – his wing was on fire, the careful bandages John had secured were partially unravelled. He wished suddenly that he could just cut the limb off, just to escape the constant pain. 

Sherlock stopped breathing, eyes widening. 

Could he do it? Could he be free from the rocks and the magic that bound him?

His eyes landed on the medicine cabinet. With any luck, there was more than just morphine inside.

Images of himself and John, both smooth-backed, filled his mind. Without his wings, Sherlock could live in the cities he had heard so much about – he could see the buildings and streets and statues. The images were unfocused and blurry (Sherlock had never seen a city with his own eyes), but the desire was undeniable. The idea of going back to the rocks now was unbearable, impossible if it meant watching John sail away and leave Sherlock behind, or stay with Sherlock and slowly waste away and die. Either way, the rocks meant their separation and Sherlock would not allow that.

Perhaps, with their freedom, they could return Irene and Mycroft to the rocks, but Sherlock would not be staying there – not without John. 

Mycroft was right – John was not Redbeard. The sisters could take care of themselves.

It was then that Harry returned, a mug of water in her hand, and Sherlock recalled the oddity he had noticed: “How long have we been still?” he demanded.

“The ship? Since yesterday. It’s got everyone tense,” Harry replied. She came closer to bring the mug to Sherlock’s lips, but froze when she saw his expression. “What?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, again struggling to suppress rage. So unnaturally long without wind. It could only mean one thing. Betrayal followed the rage, hitting fast and hard. He gasped.

“Sherlock?” Harry asked, alarmed.

“She’s alive,” Sherlock ground out. “All this time and she couldn’t be bothered—” he broke off, his throat tightening. 

She had left them there. While she was free to go wherever the wind took her, she had left them to rot on the rocks, left Sherlock to go mad with the tedium. And now, lifetimes later, she was making her presence known. Was she here to help them? To offer her godly assistance to her defenseless offspring? 

Her help was unwanted, unneeded and centuries too late. 

Harry watched in bewilderment as Sherlock, head bowed, swallowed his anger and hurt, channeling it into resolve. If anything, this realization, Mummy’s abandonment, made him all the more determined to sever his connection to the rocks.

“Um…look,” Harry said awkwardly. “I got the key. John was being dumb and guilty about getting imprisoned, but he looked hopeful when I told him we’re making a plan.”

Mention of (illogical) John caught his attention and he forced his mind back to the present, frustrated with his lack of control. Sentiment really was getting the better of him lately. It was almost certainly John’s fault, but Sherlock found himself incapable of resenting his human.

Sherlock accepted the water when Harry pressed the mug to his lips, and he drank greedily, a couple droplets escaping to run down his chin and neck. Too soon, the refreshing liquid was gone, and Sherlock gasped a little.

Not meeting Harry’s eyes, Sherlock nodded towards the locked cabinet. “Open that,” Sherlock ordered.

Harry quickly complied, still unsettled by the Siren’s mercurial moods. Sherlock watched, hands tied, as Harry rummaged through the contents of the small shelving unit. Only four vials of morphine were left, more bandages, needles and thread, and a roll of leather.

“What’s in that?” 

Harry unwrapped the roll of leather to reveal several small knives strapped on the inside. “Johnny’s scalpels.”

“Leave them with me.”

Harry looked at him sharply, seeming to evaluate him. After a long moment she nodded, and stored the scalpels under the cot’s mattress.

Sherlock knew what Harry’s conclusions were, and her choice to give him the scalpels said much about her personality – unlike her brother, she was not unwilling to hurt or kill other humans. But her conclusions were wrong: Sherlock had talons and teeth, he had no need for tiny knives. He would not be using the scalpels to harm the sailors.

“Take the morphine,” Sherlock told her. “For William.”

Harry hesitated, but then nodded, stowing two of the vials in her cleavage. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not comment. “I’ll leave some for you, too.” 

“I do not need—”

“You never know,” she shrugged. Turning around to face him, she pulled out a knife from under her skirts. _Ah_. Sherlock blinked. That explained the slight unevenness of gait he’d noticed earlier. “Look, I’ll cut you loose enough that you can get out tonight, but you need to still look tied up. If anyone checks on you, just act crazy so they don’t want to get close.”

Sherlock simply nodded, wondering when this human female had taken charge of things.

With some careful cuts, Harry weakened the ropes around his wrists, ankles and knees. She frowned at the abrasions on his skin. “I’ll let John deal with those.” Going back to the medicine cabinet, she took out some bandages and stored them with the scalpels and the morphine under the cot. She locked the cabinet again, replaced his gag and patted his head condescendingly. She smiled a little grimly but with hope in her eyes. “See you tonight,” she whispered, and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

Sherlock sighed and settled in to wait.

*

“You’re not to leave this room, Harriet.”

“William--”

“I know that with John out of commission, you feel like you need to take over his responsibilities, but the Sirens are dangerous,” William insisted, pacing in their quarters. “Not just to the body, but also the mind. You see how your brother has been affected and I will not allow the same to happen to you.”

Harry sighed and pushed away from their dining table. Standing, she put her hands on her husband’s shoulders to settle him. “Alright.”

He froze in astonishment. “Alright?”

A gentle smile curved Harry’s lips. “I realize I have been difficult.” She looked away bashfully. “I’m sorry that I have caused you stress.”

Callused fingers stroked blond locks out of Harry’s face. “My dear,” he sighed. “I would not trade your alacrity, your curiosity, for the world.”

“Nevertheless, I see now that you are correct. Every moment I’ve spent with the beasts I have seen their attempts at manipulation, their hunger for human flesh.” Harry shuddered and William pulled her to his chest, enveloping her in comforting arms. “They will do and say anything to escape.”

“My brave, brilliant girl. You see past their trickery.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If I could, I would keep you at my side always, to shield you from the evils of the world.”

Harry sighed softly. “I know you would.” She kissed him briefly. “Now let us enjoy dinner and each other’s company. Sit,” she ordered, ushering her husband to his seat. “I will pour the wine.”

“You hate to serve me,” William commented with a smirk, catching her wrist and pressing his lips to the back of her hand. 

“I’m feeling contrite for the strain I have caused you,” Harry replied, gently pulling away. “Between your ship and your wife it’s a miracle your hair is not grey.”

“You love my hair.” 

It was a question disguised as a statement, and Harry hummed, her back to him as she carefully poured their drinks. “That I do,” she agreed, satisfying his need for affection and reassurance. She returned to him and passed him the goblet in her right hand. She stroked her fingers through his thick hair. “Let us forget our troubles for tonight,” she offered, trailing her fingers down his nape before pulling away to sit across from him. He followed her movement with dark, hungry eyes, surprised by her touch. He nodded and took a sip of wine. 

They enjoyed the food and the drink, William indulging himself with two glasses, and by the end of their meal his eyelids were drooping. When his head began to slump and he dropped his fork to the floor, Harry got up to steady him.

“There now,” she murmured, helping him up. “Let’s make our way to bed, shall we?” They stumbled across the quarters where Harry let William collapse onto their cot. He mumbled something unintelligible and Harry ignored him, removing the cord around his neck that held the ship’s skeleton key. He did not move to stop her. She tucked him beneath blankets and checked his pulse and breathing before quickly leaving their quarters. 

Night had already fallen, but she still took a moment to pause by the ship’s railing. She breathed in the stagnant, salty air and gazed out at the endless, black sea, reflecting the stars like heaven’s mirror. 

_Let the skies look upon my sins and do what they will_.

She pulled the empty vial from between her breasts and dropped it over the railing.

*

Sherlock was anxious. Outside the sickbay, all was quiet, the crew having retreated to their hammocks, the winds and the ocean surreally, ominously calm. Night had fallen. Harry should arrive any moment.

He tugged against the rope around his wrists, feeling the rough strands cut into his tender skin. Only a small amount of force would snap his bonds, and he resisted the urge to do just that. He had to wait for Harry. 

The pockets of his trousers bulged with his meager supplies: the scalpels, the morphine and the roll of bandages. He was ready for whatever may come. 

“Jackson.”

Sherlock straightened suddenly at the sound of Harry’s voice, slightly muffled through the door.

“Missus,” the guard greeted in reply, sounding mildly confused. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

With a small surge of strength, Sherlock snapped the rope around his wrists, ignoring the way his skin stung and bled.

“I wanted some company,” Harry murmured.

“Is the captain not company enough?”

“The captain is sleeping.”

Sherlock removed the revolting gag from his mouth, snapped the ropes around his ankles and removed the thick burlap sacks from his feet. With his talons he cut through the remainder of his bonds.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry continued. “And I started thinking of you, standing out here all alone.”

There was a slight pause as Jackson’s breath hitched. “I don’t mind.” 

Jackson was young, Sherlock could tell from the timbre of his voice. Harry’s seduction would be embarrassingly easy.

Her voice became low and intimate. “Well, I thought I might keep you company.”

Sherlock stood and moved to the sickbay door, a length of rope in his hands.

“As I said, I couldn’t sleep, and William just wasn’t up to the task of tiring me out.” Jackson gasped, and when Harry spoke again her voice was further muffled. “I thought perhaps _you_ could help me.”

For the next several moments, the only sounds were the soft brushes of lips and the wet slide of tongues. Sherlock stood, muscles tight and quivering, waiting.

Jackson moaned softly and then there was the click of a key sliding home. Sherlock took a deep breath. There was a dull thud as the couple slammed against the wall next to the door, and Sherlock moved.

Turning the handle, he threw the door open and burst out of the room. Jackson, distracted with his lips pressed to Harry’s neck, was slow to react and did not even make a sound before Sherlock had the rope around his neck.

Harry quickly moved out of the way as Jackson choked and thrashed. She wiped at her neck to remove the sailor’s saliva and watched as Sherlock dragged the boy into the sickbay. The Siren’s strength was bolstered by his anger and his exhilaration at being free, and he had to restrain himself from tightening the rope too much and breaking the boy’s trachea. 

In only moments the sailor’s struggles weakened and stopped and Sherlock released his grip on the rope. Together, Harry and Sherlock quickly and silently tied Jackson’s wrists and ankles and secured the gag. Harry’s bottom lip was swollen where Jackson had bitten her.

She slipped her hand into Jackson’s pocket and pulled out his key to the sickbay. Sherlock’s brow furrowed briefly in confusion before smoothing out as he realized what Harry had done. “Was it wise to take the captain’s master key?”

“I didn’t want to test my nonexistent pick-pocketing skills on Jackson here by trying to take his,” Harry whispered, standing. “Follow me.” 

Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her arm. “You know what to do?” 

Harry nodded. “Trust me. And don’t let John’s guard see you.”

Sherlock hesitated but Harry just rolled her eyes and exited the room, forcing Sherlock to follow her. She locked the sickbay door behind them. Silently, she led the way into the bowels of the ship, guided through the dark by her knowledge of the vessel’s layout. They dared not risk a lantern, especially as they carefully snuck past the men’s sleeping quarters, where snores greeted them. They descended another set of stairs and Harry put a hand on his chest to stop him. She pushed him towards the back of the stairs, where he hid in the shadows, before she disappeared around the corner alone.

“Mrs. Hale,” the guard said in surprise. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, perfectly, just that Jackson was falling asleep at his post.”

“Jackson? What are _you_ doing up?” he asked, concerned rather than suspicious. 

“I’m having a restless night,” Harry admitted, letting embarrassment seep into her tone. “I was taking a walk along the deck when I saw him napping against the door. I sent him off to bed.”

“Who’s watching the Siren then?”

“Well, I was hoping you would.”

“You left the creature unguarded?” he demanded quickly.

“The Siren is hog-tied and locked in, be calm. But it would be wise for you to go keep watch. I don’t mind staying here. I doubt my brother will cause any trouble and I’m not feeling tired at all.”

There was silence for a moment, and Sherlock held his breath, waiting.

“I could wake up one of the other lads instead,” Harry offered, “but I just figured as I’m already awake I might as well be helpful…”

“No, no, you’re right. You’ll be fine down here. If Watson starts making a fuss, come fetch me and I’ll unlock his door to deal with him. I’ll just go watch the Siren.”

“Don’t you fall asleep, too,” she teased and the guard chuckled. Sherlock slunk deeper into the shadows as the sailor rounded the corner and made his way up the stairs. When his footsteps were no longer audible, Sherlock emerged and found Harry unlocking the door to John’s prison. 

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to push her aside and barge into the room, to envelop John with his wings and breathe him in. He was so close, Sherlock could hear his human heartbeat, could just make out a hint of his scent.

“Make it quick,” Harry told him, blocking the door. “I’m going to get Irene and Mycroft, but then we’ll need to act quickly. William is unconscious but his men are still loyal to him. We’ll need all five of us if things go badly.”

Sherlock nodded. “Go. We will meet you.”

Harry reached under her skirts to pull out the large knife strapped to her leg. The look she gave him was determined. “Soon we’ll be free of all this,” she promised and left the way they’d come. 

Sherlock wasted no time as he rushed into the room, hesitating only briefly when he saw John tied up and slumped in a corner. 

At first he assumed that John had succumbed to exhaustion, curled uncomfortably against a wooden crate. However, as Sherlock approached, careful not to let his talons click on the deck, he could hear John’s elevated heart rate and could see the slight tension in his muscles. The way he sat, with his tied feet planted flat on the floor, allowed for quick movement. There were broken strands of rope caught in the grooves of the crate’s sharp edge, and Sherlock was sure that if he turned over John’s bound wrists, he would see that the bindings there were almost worn away. 

Affection bloomed warm in Sherlock’s chest. _My clever human._

When Sherlock was a step away, John attacked. With a grunt of exertion, he snapped the weakened rope around his wrists, revealing shredded and bloody skin, and lunged at Sherlock’s knees. Ready for him, Sherlock went lax and allowed their combined momentum to send them sprawling to the floor, Sherlock cushioning John. He even managed to avoid jostling his broken wing too badly.

With a sharp gasp, John quickly scrambled off the Siren. “Sherlock?” he exclaimed, voice low but sharp.

Sherlock beamed at him. “Excellent form, John. I was almost convinced you were asleep.”

John spluttered for a moment before smiling back, eyes a little damp. “If it had been anyone but you, I would have been perfectly convincing.”

“True,” Sherlock conceded, his smile fading. He could smell John’s blood, could see the marks of violence on his skin. John, too, was eyeing Sherlock’s various injuries unhappily, but they were short on time.

John gripped Sherlock’s hand and pulled him forward until Sherlock was crushed to John’s chest, strong arms wrapping around Sherlock’s neck. For a moment Sherlock stiffened in surprise. He had never before embraced someone without the intention of sex, but John did not feel like he wanted sex. John simply held him as they knelt, radiating warmth and relief and security. Bathed in those emotions, Sherlock relaxed, wrapping his own arms behind John’s smooth back, knees settling on either side of John’s bound legs. John pressed his face to Sherlock’s clavicle, his lips brushing bare skin as he mouthed something over and over.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John’s hair, enjoying the texture of those gold and grey strands. “Don’t be an idiot,” he muttered, and John chuckled wetly.

Gently, with nails scratching just slightly, John stroked down Sherlock’s left shoulder blade to his second scapulae and along his wing. A shudder wracked Sherlock’s frame. For the Siren, that _did_ feel like John wanted sex, and they really did not have time for that.

“Sorry,” John murmured again, aloud this time, and removed his teasing hand.

Sherlock shuffled reluctantly out of John’s embrace. “Before we go, I need you to do something for me.” As he spoke, he kept his eyes on his talons as he carefully cut the ropes around John’s ankles.

“Anything.”

With a deep breath, Sherlock met John’s earnest gaze. “Amputate my wings.”

*

Harry stood just outside the door to the brig, knife gripped tightly in her right hand. Irene was waiting for her, but still Harry stood for moment, trying to regulate her breathing.

When she’d spoken to Mycroft about their plan, Harry had been met with a scrutinizing gaze and a calculating face. Mycroft, while sharing certain traits with her siblings, had a coldness to her that unnerved Harry. Irene was clever like Mycroft, but she was passionate and emotive where Mycroft was ice. Sherlock could be stony like Mycroft, but he had a wildness to him that gave him life, a curiosity that made him almost human. Were it not for the way Mycroft’s eyes seemed to soften when Harry mentioned her siblings, Harry would believe that Mycroft was completely void of emotion.

Nonetheless, Harry was glad that she had sought Mycroft’s advice, for the stoic Siren had told her much with few words. 

_Don’t hesitate_.

With another deep breath, Harry hurried down the stairs into the brig, knowing subtlety was impossible with these creaky steps. When Prescott came into view, she did not glance at Irene and she did not hesitate.

Harry slammed the handle of her knife against Prescott’s skull. Unfortunately, Prescott was tall, which made the angle awkward, and she lacked the necessary arm strength to knock him unconscious. Instead, he stumbled dazedly before turning on her, his ugly face contorted with a snarl.

This man scared her. He was not particularly tall or muscular, but he was cruel. Always had been, especially towards her, with his snide remarks and his vile leering. He reached for her hair.

Mycroft had also advised her: _If something does not go according to plan, improvise_.

Harry had not planned on killing anyone, but Prescott was bigger and stronger than her, and she _improvised_.

With a surge of strength brought on by adrenaline, Harry plunged the knife into soft gut. 

Prescott’s gurgled scream made Harry wince. She pulled out the knife and the man collapsed to the floor, hands pressing on his hemorrhaging abdomen. 

Stepping around him, Harry rushed to the cell, both to get to Irene and to get away from the gasping heap on the floor. Irene was standing pressed against the bars, knuckles white from gripping the metal. Her sharp eyes flicked from the bloody knife to Harry’s face, and her eyes were lustful. Harry should have found Irene’s reaction to violence disturbing, she realized. 

With fumbling fingers, Harry unlocked Irene’s cell with William’s key. Instantly, Irene swooped down on her, or she tried to, with her hands still bound.

“Well, now, haven’t you been a naughty girl,” she crooned into Harry’s ear, voice velvety smooth.

Harry pursed her lips unhappily as she cut the rope around Irene’s wrists with her bloody knife. “Someone will have heard him.”

“Oh, stop being so guilty. He deserved it.” Irene leaned around Harry to get a look at Prescott hunched on the ground and whining. “Besides, he might still live yet.”

She leaned down to cut the burlap sacks off her feet before standing and stretching her wings. Harry gasped. Irene still wore Harry’s plain underdress, cut in the back to accommodate her gorgeous black and red wings. She stood tall and proud, talons glinting, skin creamy, feathers shiny. Harry wanted to tear off the dress that tried to conceal such perfection. 

“This works on you, does it?” Irene smirked, smoothing a hand down the dress.

The sounds of footsteps above them saved Harry from having to reply. She grabbed Irene’s hand and began pulling her out of the brig.

“Then again, everything works on you,” Irene continued. As they passed Prescott, he opened his mouth to yell out, but Irene struck him hard enough that his head collided with the wall, knocking him unconscious. Harry glared at her, aghast – the man was sure to bleed out now. Irene just shrugged and continued on, taking the lead as the two women ran up the steps. “It’s him or us. Come on.”

*

John must have misheard. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock sighed like John was being difficult, but there was a tightness to it that ruined the effect. “Amputate. My wings,” he repeated, carefully and deliberately. 

John gaped for a moment. “Are you mad?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his fingers were twitching nervously. “I’ll never fly again, you said so yourself. My wing pains me constantly.”

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock quickly continued.

“We don’t know where we’re going once we escape, this might be the only chance – our moment of calm before the storm. And, John,” Sherlock gripped his shoulders and John balked a bit at his intense expression. “I will not go back to those hateful rocks. I will not go back to that dull, grey existence, especially not now.” He looked as though he had more to say, but then he snapped his mouth shut.

“Why especially not now?” John pushed.

Shoving a hand into his pocket, Sherlock pulled out John’s leather-bound scalpels. Opening the case, he presented the gleaming metal. “Use these,” he ordered, as if John hadn’t spoken. 

John stared at him in horror. These scalpels were meant to cut through soft tissue, not sinew and bone. “Sherlock, this is madness. I have neither the tools nor the time –”

A loud gasp interrupted him. John stiffened and Sherlock whirled around, scalpels glinting in his hand. 

In the doorway stood Stamford, lantern in hand, wide-eyed with shock. His gaze dropped to the knives in Sherlock’s hand and his face settled into anger and determination. 

“You get away from him!” Stamford ordered, placing the lantern on a crate and stalking towards Sherlock.

“Stamford, I’m fine,” John protested, but was ignored.

Sherlock growled threateningly. John tried to step around the Siren to get between them, but Sherlock threw out a strong arm to hold him back. John turned to snap that he could bloody well take care of himself, thanks, when Stamford lunged at Sherlock.

With a snarl, Sherlock pushed John back and met Stamford head on, teeth bared and eyes feral. 

“Don’t hurt him!” John cried, not knowing to whom he spoke. Both perhaps.

At his words, Sherlock hesitated, and that was when Stamford shoved into him forcefully, sending Sherlock stumbling back into a small crate and tripping to the deck. Stamford continued forward, reaching for his sword, face set into lines of grim determination.

“Stop!” John threw himself at his friend, tackling him to the ground. Stamford’s head crashed into a crate with a dull crack and the sound of shattering glass. Stamford went lax beneath John, and the doctor was automatically checking his breathing and heartrate before he was distracted by a sudden flare of heat and light. He looked up to a sailor’s worst nightmare.

The lantern had smashed onto a pile of ropes, the dry threads instantly catching fire. Within seconds a small inferno had formed, crackling ominously. John tried stomping on the flames with his boots, but it was ineffectual. He looked around desperately for something to smother the flames, but all he had at hand were wooden crates and more rope. His eyes landed on Sherlock’s sprawled form, still on the ground.

“Sherlock?” John quickly half-crawled to his side. He hissed at the sight that greeted him.

Protruding from the pale plane of Sherlock’s abdomen was one of John’s scalpels. Embedded halfway to the hilt, the metal handle was being slowly enclosed by a welling moat of blood, a thin crimson rivulet trailing its way down Sherlock’s side. The rest of the scalpels lay scattered on the ground. 

John wanted to swear at the unbelievable mischance of that one scalpel finding its mark. He wanted to swear again at the heat blazing at his back. He had to prioritize – if he didn’t get the fire out, they’d all be doomed, but Sherlock’s face was pale and his eyes were wide with pain and fear.

John gripped one of Sherlock’s large hands tightly. “Alright, Sherlock, just stay calm and still. I’m going to—”

Sherlock shook his head sharply, eyes squeezing shut briefly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, John,” he gasped, “but we’re floating in the middle of the sea in a wooden box that’s just caught fire.”

John grimaced. “I had noticed, thanks. My observational skills aren’t that dismal.”

Sherlock grinned crookedly, a real smile, albeit pained, and it made John’s heart clench with fondness. “Could have fooled me.” Too quick for John to stop him, Sherlock gripped the handle of the scalpel and pulled it out with a pained groan. 

“ _Jesus_ Christ, you idiot!” John exclaimed as the stab wound instantly bled more freely, staining Sherlock’s trousers. Quickly, John tore off his tunic to press hard against the injury. His ring swung freely around his neck and the heat was intense on his bare back.

“No choice,” Sherlock defended, voice strained. “We need to move.” 

John scowled, hating that he was right. “The more you exert yourself, the faster it will bleed.”

“If we stay, we burn to death.”

Sweat was already beading at the small of John’s back and at the nape of his neck. “Buggering fuck,” he swore feelingly, and helped Sherlock to his feet. Slightly hunched so as not to stretch his abdominal muscles, Sherlock leaned very slightly on John as they moved to the doorway. 

Stamford still lay unconscious on the floor, only feet away from the fire that had consumed the rope and was moving on to the crates and the wall and the deck. If they stayed much longer, the door would be blocked by a wall of flame, but John hesitated, eyes caught by the man who had only ever wanted what he thought best for John. Who only ever acted with good intentions. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured, tugging him gently towards the door. 

John closed his eyes, breathing in the smoke. He made a decision. 

“Go on,” John urged, pushing Sherlock ahead of him. “I’ll catch up with you, I promise.” Quickly he knelt at Stamford’s head and wrapped his arms under the sailor’s armpits. 

Sherlock stooped to grab Stamford’s feet, dropping John’s tunic and letting his blood flow freely from his wound.

“ _Go_ , Sherlock!” John ordered, with the authority of a drill sergeant.

Sherlock glared at him, eyes blazing as hot as the fire that was suffocating them. “Shut up and let me help you or we’ll never get out of here.”

Bearing Stamford’s considerable weight between them, they shuffled out of the room and up the stairs, John struggling with his weak human strength, and Sherlock struggling with his injury. The scent of smoke rose with them to the top, where they dumped Stamford. Just around the corner from them were the men’s sleeping quarters, and they ducked down to stay out of view. Out of his pocket Sherlock pulled a roll of gauze and John nearly sobbed in relief. 

Sounds of men groggily rousing drifted to them, woken by the noise they’d made or by the scent of smoke that was gently wafting up the stairs. Quickly, John unravelled the length of bandaging and wrapped it around Sherlock’s waist again and again, securing it with a tight knot. He had never been more grateful for Sherlock’s rapid healing capability, for it seemed that the bleeding was already slowing. 

When John was done, he pulled away, intending to fetch something to douse the fire – a bucket of water, a tarp, anything – but Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly.

“Where are you going?” he whispered harshly.

John tugged against Sherlock’s hold. “I must put the fire out. Quickly, before it grows too large.” He tugged again. “Let me _go_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head, eyes a little wild. “It is already too late. If you go back down there, you won’t come out.”

“Everyone on this ship will die!” John hissed, fighting to keep his voice down. “At least we must warn them so they can escape to the lifeboats.” 

Sherlock looked ready to simply pick John up and carry him away. 

_Don’t you dare_.

Sherlock grimaced with impatience and brought his lips to John’s ear instead. “If we wake them now, we lose our chance. As we speak, our sisters are releasing Mycroft,” he breathed, nearly too softly to hear. “Once we are all free, we can warn the humans.” Sherlock gentled his grip on John’s arm and stroked his skin lovingly. “Please, John. Think of our families.” 

John swallowed thickly and nodded once, jerkily. He took Stamford’s sword and allowed Sherlock to tug him in the direction of the hold, racing against the moment the sailors inevitably noticed their escape. 

In the hold, a single lantern weakly illuminated the three women. Irene was cutting the ropes that secured Mycroft’s ankles to large barrels while Harry stood over the unconscious guard. The man looked unharmed, but the knife Harry held was stained dark with blood, and John lurched towards her.

“Harry, what have you done?” he demanded, staring at her bloody knife. 

Harry faced him with surprise that instantly morphed into indignation. “What I needed to.” 

“How could you—”

“And I am _sick_ of men telling –”

“No time for squabbling,” Sherlock cut in.

Irene and Mycroft came to stand behind Harry’s shoulder, Mycroft stoic and confident despite her state of undress. The way Irene’s and Mycroft’s nostrils flared and their eyes widened at the same time would have been comical had the situation allowed for levity. As if was, John was trying to reconcile the thought of his rambunctious sister with a person who could stab and possibly kill a man.

“A fire, Sherlock, really?” Mycroft drawled, as if judging the entirety of Sherlock’s life choices and finding them lacking. 

“What kind of plan is that?” Irene squawked, sneaking worried glances at the bandages around Sherlock’s torso.

Sherlock sniffed. “I’ll have you know the fire was _John’s_ fault, actually.”

“You set the ship on _fire?_ ” Harry demanded John. “And you’re worried about what _I’ve_ done?”

“ _All hands, fire below deck!_ ” Came a shout from above.

“Move,” John barked, and the five of them ran up the steps, emerging into chaos.

The sailors were all awake and panicking. Some were standing around the opening to the storage room where the fire raged, pacing and fidgeting nervously. Others were grabbing blankets with hopes of smothering the flames, but it seemed they all lacked the courage to venture into the heat. Some men were frantically grabbing their meager belongings and running for the top deck, already having lost hope.

“Fetch water from the galley!” someone cried and another scrambled to obey. 

Distracted as the sailors were, John foolishly hoped that the five of them could slip past without notice. They made it only a few steps before they were spotted.

“Sirens!” someone shrieked, and a sword came plunging towards Sherlock.

John’s body jolted into action without thought, swinging Stamford’s sword out to block the blow with a ringing crash. Human shouts and Siren growls filled the air as a fight broke out. John’s focus narrowed sharply to the present, no time to think as he dodged and lunged and stabbed. He had not wished to hurt anyone in the escape, but this was different, this was self-defense. 

A fist came seemingly out of nowhere, announcing its presence as it slammed into John’s face. Stunned, John stumbled back, his vision a little blurry. Small hands caught him.

“I’m fine,” he started to say, but was interrupted by a baritone snarl. John’s vision was obscured by a huge black wing as Sherlock darted in front of him, fingers like claws as he seized John’s attacker. There was a sudden snap of bone and a scream of agony. 

At John’s back, Harry let out a whimper.

“Come on,” John urged, grabbing her wrist and pulling her towards the stairs to the top deck. The Sirens made a loose circle around the human siblings, Irene and Mycroft in the front, Sherlock pressed to John’s back. Not about to be left out, John struck out at assailants with his sword, Harry with her knife.

By the time they reached the base of the stairs, smoke was thick in the air, and more of the sailors were abandoning the fight as they ran to or from the fire. Some tried to squeeze past the Sirens to get to the stairs, only to be struck down with talon or claw.

John only got a quick look at the carnage left behind them, the humans sprawled and bleeding on the deck, before Mycroft grabbed him. Irene grabbed Harry, and the Sirens pulled the humans up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to cover their vulnerable backs. 

When the four of them reached open air, John was nearly knocked over by the battering winds that met them. His eyes watered and his naked flesh erupted in goosebumps. Irene and Mycroft shared a meaningful look, but John was distracted by Sherlock, who still stood at the bottom of the stairs, facing a horde of angry and panicked sailors. 

“Sherlock!” John’s cry was lost to the winds. 

As he watched, Sherlock swiped the air with his talons, forcing the men back as he retreated up the steps. With the humans suitably cowed, the Siren turned and darted up the steps, too quick for anyone to take advantage of his turned back.

John seized Sherlock as the Siren emerged onto the deck. There was blood on Sherlock’s lips, but John didn’t think it was his own. Sherlock loomed over him, quivering, eyes burning into his. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing red on his knuckles. John said nothing and briefly squeezed Sherlock’s bicep.

Men fleeing from the smoke below deck forced the five escapees away from the stairs. The wind howled around them, stinging John’s eyes and stealing his breath. The gusts were so powerful that Harry was actually struggling to stay upright as they made their slow way to the lifeboats. As sailors also tried to reach the lifeboats, wind pushed at the men like an invisible hand, effortlessly knocking them to the deck. 

“What’s going on?” Harry shrieked, gripping tightly to Irene. 

The gusts were random, blustering in any direction and causing the sailors to scatter. John kept getting pushed to the left, away from Sherlock, and the Siren’s face contorted with an inaudible hiss as he pulled John closer to his side.

“ _Mummy_ ,” Mycroft shouted, looking grim. 

Oddly enough, the wind seemed not to touch the Sirens. While the humans stumbled and gasped, the Sirens’ feathers were barely ruffled. 

The wind suddenly increased, screaming in John’s ears and pressing against his face. John’s lungs froze. He faltered, opening his mouth to gasp. He couldn’t breathe.

Panicked, John struggled when strong hands seized his head. He was tugged firmly until his face was pressed into warm flesh. The calm was instant relief, and John inhaled desperately. He could feel the vibrations as Sherlock growled, and realized his nose was pressed to Sherlock’s chest. 

The growling cut off with a sharp inhale and Sherlock’s fingers dug painfully into John’s flesh. “Stop this!” the Siren bellowed to the sky, head tilted back.

From the heavens John swore he could hear an inhuman screech like the banshee herself. Around them the gale raged. 

At last they reached a lifeboat, when Sherlock released John in order to singlehandedly lift the small vessel over the ship’s railing. Harry leaned over the edge as the dinghy was lowered, watching skeptically as waves crashed violently against the hull. 

“We’ll never make it alive in that,” she worried, shouting to be heard.

“Have faith,” John soothed, though silently he agreed.

Mycroft was the first to enter the lifeboat, but rather than climb down the rungs built into the side of the ship, she simply launched herself into open air. Harry yelped, clapping a hand over her mouth when she saw those immense russet wings spread to slow Mycroft’s descent. The moment the Siren sat, the waves around the lifeboat settled, rocking it gently as a baby’s cradle.

“Unbelievable,” John muttered. When he glanced at Sherlock, the Siren was appraising the clouds with narrowed eyes, his lips pressed together tightly. John tried to follow his gaze, but could see nothing in the night sky.

Harry went next, taking the more traditional climbing route, followed by Irene, whose arm was bleeding profusely from a laceration. Sherlock continued to shield John’s back, his whole body tense and quivering, but none of the sailors attacked them again. It was as John was lowering himself over the railing that it happened.

A flash of white exploded from the sky, like a shooting star.

“Go!” Sherlock hissed at him, obscuring John’s vision and pushing him downward. 

A loud thud as something landed hard on deck.

“What--?” 

Sherlock quickly climbed over the railing, crowding John and forcing him to climb down or risk finger amputation from those deadly talons.

John landed heavily in the lifeboat, steadied by Harry, and Sherlock quickly followed. The moment they were all inside, Mycroft untied the ropes and pushed off from the ship, letting the lifeboat drift freely.

The wind stopped. 

“What’s happening?” Harry whispered into the sudden quiet.

The air seemed to crackle with electricity as Irene passed out the oars, giving one to each of them.

“Something unstoppable,” Mycroft intoned darkly, and started to row. 

From high above them, the first screams split the air. 

The wind whipped back to life around them. The lifeboat jolted, spraying sea water in their faces. Harry lost her oar as she gripped the dinghy’s edge with both hands. They were being propelled forward, away from the ship, the bow slicing effortlessly through the water. 

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock snarled, making John twitch in surprise. With his oar he tried to stop the motion of the lifeboat, but his efforts only succeeded in kicking up more seawater. 

“Do not be a fool, Sherlock,” Mycroft chided, grasping her oar in her lap. “Where did you think she would send us other than back home?”

John, not used to the sea, had no way of knowing their heading without a compass, but Mycroft’s words sent a thrill of alarm through him. _Home_ for the Sirens could only mean one place.

Screams continued to fill the air, distorted by the wind. John glanced back at the ship, where flames were licking at its top deck. He watched the growing distance between them, and felt overwhelmingly helpless.

“I refuse to return there,” Sherlock spat, livid. “All this time she left us stranded there, abandoned, while she was free. I’ll have nothing to do with her.”

For a moment, John was furious with Sherlock and his petty complaints. Sherlock had his freedom, while Stamford and William and all the other men with whom John had associated for nearly a month were being slaughtered. It was the Sirens’ very presence that had brought destruction upon the ship.

 _No_ , John reminded himself, _Sherlock did not ask for any of this_. It was a collection of everyone’s decisions that had brought them to this point. Every Siren and sailor was to blame.

John reached out to place a calming hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He half expected the Siren to turn on him, or to flinch away, but instead Sherlock leaned into his hand.

“She’s sick, possessive, hording us like forgotten trinkets, there only for her amusement,” Sherlock pressed, addressing his siblings. “She left us there to suffer and languish. How can you accept that? The way she controlled us? I’ll not stand for it. No longer am I hers to own – I am my own person –”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, and he turned to stare at John. Face flushed, his eyes flicked from John’s hand on his shoulder to John’s face. 

John, who had been enraptured by Sherlock’s passionate speech, furrowed his brow in confusion. He removed his hand from Sherlock’s skin. “What?”

A crinkle appeared between Sherlock’s eyebrows. He turned suddenly and leaned towards Harry, grabbing at her skirts and grimacing as the movement irritated his wounded abdomen.

“Hey!” she shrieked, batting at him. “What are you doing?”

“Sherlock!” John cried in surprise, seizing his shoulder again. 

Sherlock shook him off and plunged a hand under Harry’s skirts. “Your knife. I need it.”

“Then _ask_ for it!” Harry kicked him, yelping when their struggling rocked the lifeboat. Harry pulled the out the knife from the holster strapped to her leg and practically threw it at Sherlock, cringing away from him.

Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh and Irene made an uncertain sound. “Sherlock…” she said tightly.

Sherlock presented the knife to a bewildered John, who took it automatically. “Please, John. Do it now.”

John stared for a moment, wind and screams muffled in his ears, before realization widened his eyes. “ _No_ , Sherlock.”

“You must,” Sherlock insisted, engulfing John’s occupied hand with both of his. John tried to pull away. “It’s the key to my freedom, the only way to break my ties to her, to the rocks. I choose you, John. Always you.”

Tears stung John’s eyes. “I won’t help you mutilate yourself,” he rasped. 

“John, if you love me, help me.”

“Please, just not here, Sherlock. It’s not safe,” John begged.

“Anywhere else will be too late.”

“Sherlock, you are allowing sentiment to cloud your logic,” Mycroft cut in, her brow furrowed.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “For once, my sentiment and my logic are in complete agreement.” 

The group fell silent as a single agonized cry drifted to their ears. The wind died at the same time the scream did, leaving only the sound of gentle waves and the distant crackle of fire. The lifeboat’s momentum weakened, leaving them drifting gently in the dark water. Harry shivered in the stillness. 

“Now, John, you must do it now,” Sherlock hissed.

John hesitated, and, impatient, Sherlock snatched the knife from him. He held the weapon in his left hand and lifted his right arm to reach under it, awkwardly aiming the knife at the base of his injured right wing.

“Don’t do this, Sherlock,” Irene begged, grabbing his wrist.

Sherlock snarled at her, shockingly loud in the now quiet night. “This is my decision –”

A streak of light passed by them, and Sherlock yelled out. The knife was knocked from his grasp, lost to the ocean with a splash. Sherlock tried lunging to follow it, stopped only by John’s quick embrace as the dinghy rocked dangerously. 

Sherlock was tense and still in John’s hold, his muscles quivering violently as he leaned over the edge of the lifeboat. Slowly, he leaned back, and John relaxed his painfully tight hold. Something was glowing in John’s peripheral vision, and he turned his head to find the source. 

John’s breath stopped. 

“Oh, my little ones,” the creature sighed, her voice so piercingly beautiful that John had to close his eyes in near-pain.

Her iris-filled eyes, orange like autumn leaves, appraised the mesmerized humans and the cowed Sirens. 

“My beautiful Irene,” she breathed, smiling at the Siren tenderly. “My cunning Mycroft,” she whispered proudly. Her gaze fell to Sherlock, and her lips twisted into something unsure, something wistful. 

Sherlock met her stare bravely, but John could feel the way he leaned away from her. 

“My foolish Sherlock,” she murmured. 

“Hello, Mummy,” he rumbled. “How long it has been.”

“Oh, and what are these?” Mummy cooed, glancing between Harry and John. A flutter of wind lifted a tuft of Harry’s hair playfully. “A bit drab,” she smiled. A gentle breeze caressed John’s cheek. “A tad dull.” Her large ocher eyes appraised the Sirens affectionately. “Snacks for the trip home?”

Sherlock, already tense, stiffened to the point that John thought he might snap. Harry looked pale, riveted by the goddess floating in the air above them. John was rather transfixed as well. The nude creature was female, clearly, but not a woman, for there was too much inhuman about her. Her hair was so pale it looked white in the moonlight, but she had an agelessness about her – she seemed infinitely old and yet in the prime of her youth. The air around her seemed to shimmer as she bobbed gently, and John realized that those were _wings_. Nearly invisible, shimmering like stained glass, the wings pumped gracefully, pushing great gushes of air to keep her afloat.

Blood was smeared across her face and chest and hands, red droplets splattered on her neck and arms and legs, clumping streaks in her long white hair. Her talons did not glint in the moonlight, coated and dripping as they were in crimson. She looked like an avenging angel, and John felt both a horrifying attraction and an overwhelming revulsion. 

“These humans helped us escape,” Mycroft explained, face neutral, watching Mummy carefully. 

Mummy’s eyes snapped to Mycroft. The gentleness in her expression flowed away like water over sand, revealing the harsh, gritty emotions underneath. 

“I felt it, when you left me,” she whispered, a note of strong emotion thrumming beneath her words. 

“You were never there to leave,” Sherlock snapped, causing the others to flinch. “It was you who abandoned us.”

“Why did you leave your home?” she demanded, voice suddenly strong. “Why did you leave the safe haven I made for you?”

“We had no choice,” Irene said fretfully, glancing at Sherlock. “The humans attacked us.”

“We underestimated them,” Mycroft agreed. “They were well prepared.”

Sherlock stayed silent, lips pressed together tightly.

Mummy glared at the humans, noticing the way Harry clung to Irene and the way Sherlock leaned into John’s touch. Something dark passed over her expression. 

“I did not feel the presence of humans on the rocks,” she accused. Her long hair rustled with a slight breeze. “You left of your free will.” 

“I thought it wise to go on the offensive,” Sherlock offered, face stony. 

A sudden gust made John shiver. 

“You thought it wise to leave me,” Mummy corrected. “To face the humans on your own?”

“Sherlock enjoys the excitement of the hunt,” Mycroft defended smoothly. “You know how he’s keen for adventure.”

Mycroft’s words only seemed to anger her further. “Oh, yes, I know of my son’s curiosity. Of his desire to disobey me.” Her hair whipped harshly around her head. “You were never truly mine, were you, Sherlock?” Her face crumpled as she wailed, “You promised you would stay and you left me! And you forced your sisters to follow!” 

Unnerved by her insanity, John tensed against Sherlock, who sneered at her. The wind had greatly increased, and the Siren raised his voice. 

“You left us stranded on some rock, left to wither with stagnation and die of starvation. You do not know what it was like,” Sherlock raged. “You, child of the sky, free to wander with the wind, while I slowly went mad. Surrounded by the unchanging sky, and the unchanging sea and our unchanging Songs. I’ve lost my Song, and I am glad of it, because that means I am that much closer to being free of it all: of the rocks and of you.” The wind was howling now, as Mummy hissed and clenched her fists and shook her head. Still Sherlock continued. “And thanks to your curse, I was forced to watch as human after human perished, thinking it was something I’d done. You could not even allow me that small companionship. It was to be you, or nothing, and you left us with nothing.”

Tears streamed down Mummy’s cheeks and when she spoke, her voice seemed to surround them, jumping from place to place. “So that’s what this is,” she cried, and it sounded like it came from behind John. He whipped around, but saw nothing – she had not moved. “You love him more than you love me!”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “I love dirt more than I love you.”

Mummy sobbed and turned to Irene. “And you? Do you love this female human?”

Harry stared at Mummy with wide eyes, too terrified to speak, though it looked like she wanted to.

“I care for her,” Irene admitted quietly. 

With a final sniff, Mummy stopped crying. She wrapped her arms around her torso and beat her wings hard. For a moment John thought she might simply leave, but instead she began to slowly circle their little rowboat, expression resentful. 

“Mycroft, only you have stayed loyal to me, yet even you left our home.”

The Sirens stayed silent, knowing that defending themselves would be useless.

“I gave you life, and protection, and Songs,” she listed, five pairs of eyes following her motion, “and still you betrayed me.” She shook her head sadly, the wind a low rumble in the background. “For that I will not return your Songs to any of you.”

Irene bowed her head, but Mycroft and Sherlock sat unaffected. 

“Irene, beautiful Irene.” Mummy lowered herself almost to the water and stroked Irene’s feathered mane. “If it is a human you desire, then more human you shall be. From you I take your feathers.”

There was a blinding flash, forcing the others to shield their eyes as Irene screeched. When John blinked the stars from his vision, he saw Irene had her forehead on her knees and her arms wrapped around herself. Her wings were gone, leaving gaping cuts in the back of her dress, and her feathered mane was replaced with shiny black hair, tumbling over her shoulders and covering her face.

Harry sat frozen, staring.

“Sherlock,” Mummy murmured, and John’s attention snapped back to her. She flew intimidatingly close. “Son who was never mine, stealer of my daughters.”

Sherlock snorted. “Never have I been able to make your daughters do anything.”

“Hush, child,” Mummy scolded, and Sherlock choked as a gust of air smothered him.

John reached for him, pressing the Siren’s face to John’s neck, hoping to shield him from the buffeting winds. 

The winds calmed again as Mummy considered the couple. “You have taken everything from me,” Mummy said conversationally and Sherlock lifted his head to face her. “I really ought to take something of yours.”

Her burning ocher eyes focused on John a moment before Sherlock’s did. The Siren paled so quickly John worried he might faint. Sherlock turned his back to John and spread his left wing, blocking John from Mummy’s view. John’s heart pounded and he scowled. If he was about to die, he wanted to face his fate, not hide from it. 

“John has done nothing, means nothing,” Sherlock said quickly, pitch raised with tension. “You’re angry at me, punish me.”

“Sherlock,” John murmured, pushing at the huge wing. “I love you. It’s fine, it’s all fine.”

“No, it’s not,” his voice broke.

Peeking over the top of Sherlock’s wing, John saw Mummy tilt her head, bird-like, a cruel twist to her beautiful lips.

White light exploded in John’s face. He cried out, covering his eyes with his hands, his ears filled with both the wind’s and Sherlock’s howling. He tensed, waiting for the pain, for the darkness, for whatever awaited the soul after life. His bullet wound ached.

When the light faded, John cautiously lifted his head and opened his eyes, blinking starbursts from his vision.

“How curious,” Mycroft murmured. “Her vanity has completely skewed her perception.”

“John! John, are you alright?” Harry demanded. 

“Fine,” John said, dazed. “I’m fine.” Still unable to see clearly, John reached out with his hands to touch Sherlock. He found Sherlock’s back and froze. “Sherlock?”

Tentatively, John ran his hands over Sherlock’s perfectly smooth back. The Siren’s shoulders were shaking. 

“She’s gone, John,” Harry told him. “She just flew straight into the sky.”

Blinking away the last of the spots, John leaned down to see Sherlock’s face. He could see that Sherlock’s talons were gone, too; long, knobbly, perfect feet had replaced them. “Sherlock. Love. Are you alright?”

“John,” he choked. His face was wet.

“She honestly thought that this was a crueler punishment than John’s death,” Mycroft continued to herself. She sounded completely baffled.

An odd sound, a mix of a laugh and a groan, erupted from Sherlock’s lips. In a sudden movement, he sat up straight and pulled John to his chest. An arm wrapped around John’s back and a large hand settled on the back of John’s head. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s smooth back, marveling at the sensation and feeling a little pang of loss. 

“This is what you wanted?” John asked, massaging the place where Sherlock’s second scapulae had been, feeling only the strong ridges of his ribs.

With a shudder, Sherlock curled his spine so he could bury his face in John’s neck, the hand in John’s hair trailing down to squeeze John’s nape. “ _Yes_. Yes, John, a thousand times yes.”

*

Wind continued to propel their lifeboat forward, but in the opposite direction, towards land. When Harry wondered why Mummy would bother, why not just leave them drifting and stranded, Mycroft replied:

“Fortunately for us, Mummy’s perspective is completely contrary to ours. She perceives our actions as a betrayal deserving the most severe punishment: the loss of her protection and power. In her utter vanity, she has actually given us – well, Sherlock at any rate – exactly what he wanted.”

Irene took the loss of her wings and feather tresses hard. Despite Harry’s reassurances that Irene was still beautiful, she would not be consoled. It was only when John warned her that she could not spare the water loss that she stopped weeping. 

“I’ll never fly,” she moaned, tugging at her unruly hair in irritation. 

Harry set to combing the black strands with her fingers and organizing them into a braid, keeping Irene’s hair out of her face. 

Mycroft, who took pride in being the most logical of the three siblings, was rather put out by the irony of their situation. If one were to live amongst humans, logically one would wish to appear human, in order to be accepted by society. By attracting Mummy’s rage, Sherlock and Irene were actually in better condition to mingle amongst humans than Mycroft was, with her talons and all her feathers still intact. By making Mummy the _least_ upset, Mycroft’s so-called punishment would ultimately be the most severe, as she would be forced to submit to surgical alterations and disguises if she desired any semblance of a quality life. Of course, this was what happened when illogical, unstable individuals such as Mummy possessed such power.

Mycroft sulked while the others ignored her.

John was in a strange state of relief, hope and grief. He’d escaped the ship, he’d helped free Sherlock and his siblings, he felt electrified with life... And yet the _Defiance_ was burnt and sunk, her crew brutally murdered. So many lives lost, so many good people – those that were trying to make a difference in the world, those that were supporting a family, those that loved a good adventure – lost. John was no stranger to survivor’s guilt, but it did not make this any easier. 

Sherlock, as emotionally stunted though he could be, seemed to sense John’s somber mood. Though he burned with excitement and curiosity – where did John live? How many humans lived there? How would they get food and water? What was the murder rate? – he complied with John’s obvious desire for quiet and his need to simply hold Sherlock, occasionally stroking his smooth, bare back and his human, harmless-looking feet. 

Admittedly, Sherlock felt a little off-balance without his wings, like his center of gravity was too far forward. He’d spent his whole life compensating for the extra weight on his back, that he felt unnervingly light with two limbs less. He experimented with his feet by flexing and pointing his toes, grimacing and shaking his foot when that caused a nasty cramp in the arch. He tried separating his toes, but found them to be much less dexterous than his talons had been – he could only separate his big toe from the others with any level of success. Unlike John’s thickly callused feet, Sherlock’s soles were soft and smooth – like a baby’s, John informed him. With time, Sherlock would also develop the thickened skin that would reduce the sensitivity of his heels and balls of his feet. 

Chapped lips pressed beneath Sherlock’s right shoulder blade, and Sherlock hummed in pleasure, wriggling in John’s embrace and ignoring Mycroft’s look of disgust. If she didn’t like it, she didn’t have to look. In fact, if she weren’t so lazy, she could just fly off for a bit – she still had her wings after all. 

Sherlock was very glad that his mother was an idiot. He was very, very glad that John was not dead. 

*

The first hues of sunlight were seeping into the sky when they reached land. Either by fortunate accident or by design, they made berth in a deserted, sandy alcove, shielded from the main land by a small agglomeration of trees. Sherlock was vibrating with excitement, barely discouraged by his thirst or by the fact that he struggled to balance with his new feet. 

The five of them stood in a small circle in the sand, dehydrated and shivering. John was shirtless, Sherlock was shirtless and shoeless, Irene wore only a thin cotton dress and had talons for feet, and Mycroft was completely Siren. They had no money and no identification.

“Right,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Harry, the only one that resembled anything close to ‘normal’, pursed her lips. “I suppose this first bit will be up to me then.”

The four of them were left to their own devices as Harry went searching for clothes and water, something John wasn’t pleased with but admitted was unavoidable. Sherlock started poking around like a kid in a candy shop, tottering along as he learned how to balance and grimacing when he stepped on something sharp. He observed, touched, smelled, and tasted just about everything. 

“Oi, not that!” John warned him when he reached for a patch of particularly unpleasant plant. “The sap burns like the devil.”

Rather than be turned away, Sherlock’s eyes widened in fascination, and he set to studying the plant as closely as possible without touching it. John sighed, wishing he had his medical bag.

“And here,” John continued, crouching to remove his shoes. “Wear these if you’re going to be trampling around the underbrush.”

Sherlock flapped a distracted hand at him.

“Sherlock,” John growled.

“Fine.”

Sherlock continued to observe the plant, not moving.

“Lazy git,” John grumbled, and lowered himself to the sand at Sherlock’s feet. “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he ordered, and picked up Sherlock’s right foot when he did so. John brushed the sand from the sole, pausing when Sherlock gasped and tensed. Gentling his touch and wiggling his fingers, John repeated the gesture, grinning when Sherlock squeaked something undignified and curled his toes. “Ticklish?”

He looked up to see Sherlock glaring at him. 

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “I am simply unused to the increase of sensitivity in these useless appendages. What’s the point of toenails when you can’t cut with them anyway?” 

John laughed and finished with the other shoe with a grin stretching his lips. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder gently. John looked up in surprise, but the man, was studiously ignoring him.

Leaving Sherlock to his explorations, John stood barefoot in the cool sand, shivering and hugging himself to keep warm. Mycroft was snuggled into her wings, looking even more surreal than usual in this ordinary setting. Irene sat, heedless of the wet sand, watching the gradually lightening sky. She dug her talons idly into the sand, gouging lines into the cool earth below. John plopped himself to the sand next to her and leaned against her slightly.

She gave him an incredulous look. 

He shrugged, enjoying the body heat. “It’s cold.”

“John, come look at this!”

“I swear to God, if it’s another snail,” John muttered quietly, giving himself a mental pat on the back when it got a smirk out of Irene.

*

Harry returned with several ratty blankets, one stained men’s shirt, and a bucket of well water.

“Where did you get this stuff?” John wondered, after drinking his share of the tepid water. 

“You don’t want to know,” Harry warned him.

John grimaced and accepted a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. Sherlock tried to give back John’s shoes, but John shook his head. “Your feet are not as tough as mine.”

All said and done, they looked only marginally more presentable, but at least they weren’t all half-nude. 

Irene’s talons were still an issue. Mycroft’s blanket was more of a cloak, large enough to hide everything from her face to her talons, her wings giving the impression of a hunchback. Irene’s blanket only went to her knees.

“You’ll just have to stand in the back,” Harry offered, grimacing.

*

Stooped, tottering and scantily dressed, they made quite the group. Crowded into the back of a wagon, John gave a brief prayer of thanks for drunken, overly-friendly farmers that didn’t look too close or ask too many questions.

Mycroft looked like she’d sucked on a lemon, Irene looked put-out and Harry looked disgusted, but, really, things could have been much worse. 

“John, come look at this!”

At least Sherlock was pleased.

*

After being dropped off, they made it to John’s flat just as the last of the pink was disappearing from the sky. Huddling together and trying to look inconspicuous, wary of early morning risers, they stood in front of John’s door and realized the problem.

“I suppose I could kick it down,” John muttered, glancing around to see if anyone was watching them. So far the street was mostly empty, only a few customers at the shop a little ways down, all of them focused on their own affairs.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock rumbled. His long fingers delved into John’s front pocket, wriggled around for a titillating moment, and emerged with two thin lengths of metal.

“The lock-pick!” John exclaimed. “I can’t believe I didn’t lose it. How did you know it was there?”

One side of Sherlock’s lips tugged up in response, and he bent down to work on the door’s lock. In a matter of minutes, they heard the click of the bolt sliding free. 

“Fantastic,” John praised, taking Sherlock’s hand and pressing a dry kiss to the back as he entered his bedsit. 

Inside was musty and gray, dust motes dancing in the rays of light that shone through the one small window. His things were exactly as he’d left them: his bed neatly made, his table clear except for the small pile of books, and his wash basin empty. He went straight for his bed and knelt down to look underneath. He pulled out the small box he stored there and checked its contents, relieved to find everything untouched. He’d lost most of his belongings on the _Defiance_ , but at least he had some small amount of cash now. And he could pawn his ring, which still rested on his sternum, if he had to. 

“I know it’s not much,” John began, turning to face the others, “but we can rest here. And I have enough money to buy us a meal.”

Sherlock was looking around the small room curiously, taking in John’s meager belongings. When he met John’s gaze, his eyes were knowing but not pitying. 

John found he couldn’t look at Mycroft long, her unearthly appearance too incongruous with his shabby lodgings. He turned to the small chest at the foot of his bed, opening it to remove some clean garments. He and Sherlock changed into new trousers and shirts while Irene agreed to a sleeping gown. Mycroft opted to keep her cloak while Harry changed into one of Mary’s old dresses. It was crowded and awkward in the small room, but considering what they’d been through, a little nudity was nothing.

Exhausted and hurting, the sisters agreed to stay and rest while John popped out quickly to buy some food. Sherlock insisted on accompanying him, which John reluctantly agreed to with the condition of first treating Sherlock’s stab wound. John had wondered, with Sherlock’s new human appearance, if his healing would slow to the pace of a human’s as well. Fortunately, the wound was healing cleanly and remarkably quickly, something John was silently grateful for. 

Sherlock kept almost indecently close to John as they walked down the street, glancing around himself with eyes wide with awe. John smiled and let their hands brush. “Not what you were expecting?”

“I am finding that my imagination did not do it justice.”

“It?”

“The scent of dirt, and coal, and cobble streets, and rain, and…and so many indistinguishable odours. The sight of _buildings_ , man-made structures towering over us, blocking out the sun. The sounds of people and horses and carriages and children. There’s so much to learn, John, so much to know.”

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes darted everywhere. John wanted to take his face in his hands and kiss those parted lips. “You notice all those things?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes alight. “There’s so _much_ , it’s nearly overwhelming.” He inched a bit closer to John’s side, subconsciously John thought.

“At least you’ll never be bored.”

Sherlock’s gaze focused abruptly on him and a helpless smile split suddenly quivering lips. Those ice-blue eyes filled with tears and Sherlock’s breath burst out of him in a sob.

“Oh, _Sherlock_.” John wanted desperately to hold him, but didn’t dare out in the open, where anyone could see. Glancing around, John quickly pulled Sherlock into a narrow alleyway, ignoring the scent of urine and rubbish and dragging the quivering man into the shadows. Once obscured, John engulfed Sherlock in a fierce embrace, blinking away his own tears as Sherlock sobbed.

Sherlock clutched at him desperately, painfully, and let John prop him up against the filthy wall, let John press kisses everywhere he could reach, let himself be surrounded by John. He was overcome.

Once his breathing had turned to hiccupping gasps, John brought their lips together briefly, but passionately, tasting salt.

“ _Free. John, I’m free, I’m free. John._ ”

“Yes. Sherlock, forever, you’re free.”

Curls brushed John’s face as Sherlock shook his head. “No. No, John. I’m yours.”

*

John ended up spending nearly a quarter of his savings on bread and broth for the five of them, but as they sat together dipping the crusts in the hot liquid, he could not come to regret the splurge.

“I'll take Irene and Mycroft back to William’s,” Harry said after they’d finished. “I’ll tell everyone it was a mutiny that led to the fire. My husband put me on a lifeboat to escape – I’m the sole survivor of the _Defiance_. We never found what we were looking for.”

“And what about Mycroft and Irene?” John asked.

“They’re two gypsy ladies that found my boat and helped me get home. I’m indebted to them and rather fond of them. I’ve always wanted a sister.”

Sherlock snorted and John pursed his lips skeptically.

“They’ll believe me,” Harry said confidently. “At the very least they’ll think I’m traumatized and won’t risk damaging my delicate constitution by asking too many questions.”

*

With a warning not to shred his mattress, John allowed Irene and Harry use his small bed. Mycroft, who was used to sleeping in caves, was perfectly satisfied with her wings and the floor, where she settled to preen her feathers.

“I want to show you something,” John murmured to Sherlock, who John knew was exhausted but too wired to sleep. 

John led the way outside and to the back of the building, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Using a heap of rubbish, he jumped up onto a windowsill, then used a well-remembered combination of nooks and crannies to reach the remnants of the rusty ladder attached to the wall. He looked down to see Sherlock watching him, trying and failing to not look impressed. 

“Well, come on, then,” John teased, only slightly breathless, and climbed up the ladder and onto the roof. 

Sherlock followed him only a moment later, scaling the building quickly and joining John. “What did you want to show…” he trailed off, lips parted and eyes wide.

“It’s not nearly the tallest building in London,” John said apologetically, “but it still offers a decent view.”

Around them the city sprawled as far as the eye could see, rooftops peeking out from behind each other and billows of coal smoke unfurling towards the sky. The blanket noise of the city’s bustle drifted up to them, the smell of the bakery down the street wafting into John’s nostrils.

“Over there,” John pointed, “is St. paul’s cathedral – see that dome? It was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London of 1666. And over there is St-Mary-le-Bow church – do you see it?”

Together they stood on the roof as John kept up a monologue of facts, Sherlock listening intently. Eventually, Sherlock pulled his gaze away from the unending sights to watch John’s face, marking the bruises and small cuts, enjoying the mess of his hair, marveling at the shifting expressions. When John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, Sherlock could restrain himself no longer. He darted forward and caught the human in a searing kiss, licking gently into his mouth when John gasped, and nibbling on his bottom lip. John groaned and Sherlock hummed in response, pressing closer. 

It felt like Sherlock’s chest would explode with the pressure of his joy, his relief, his love. He wanted desperately to share this ecstasy with his lover, this man who had caught his attention from the first instant and only continued to bewitch him. This man who had nothing, yet shared all he had. Who was shot in the shoulder and scaled buildings for fun. Who killed and healed, who had turned on his own kind to help Sherlock escape. This man who…who loved Sherlock. The only human to ever wish to stay with Sherlock by choice, without the influence of Sherlock’s Song.

They separated only when the need for breath became imperative, but still they gripped each other, Sherlock’s thumbs stroking John’s cheekbones and John’s right hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls. With his left hand, John stroked Sherlock’s lips.

“What was that for?” he murmured, pupils consuming his storm blue irises. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, and his eyes impossibly soft.

He was so beautiful, Sherlock ached inside. “Everything. Just. Everything.”

There were other words, words he burned with, that would not come, not yet. In time, perhaps. John knew, Sherlock was sure. When it came to Sherlock, John always knew.

Around and between them the wind brushed past. Sherlock’s back felt naked, and he let his skewed sense of balance tug him forward, returning him to John’s embrace. The Siren had lost his wings, but never before had he soared so high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a shorter epilogue set in the future, but this is the end of the main story arc.
> 
> I love hearing your thoughts!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an adjustment period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, by “shorter epilogue” I obviously meant “the longest chapter yet”.

Several weeks after their return to London, after the questions, and explanations, and Harry’s stilted performance of a traumatized, clueless widow; after the suspicion turned to pity, and the disbelief tuned to acceptance; after the reading of William’s will and the distribution of his wealth; after just barely settling into their new lives, Mycroft came to John with a request. Or rather, an order in disguise. 

For several moments, John could not find his voice. 

“It’s only logical,” Sherlock agreed with his sister, hearing the horror in John’s silence. “And you’re the only surgeon to do it.”

John glanced at the deformed hump of Mycroft’s back, covered by a heavy cloak. His left hand twitched, and he clenched it into a fist. Mycroft’s eyes darted down to the movement, her lips twisting slightly in distaste.

“You can’t!” Irene argued, having come with her sister to discourage Mycroft from her plan. “They’re part of you. They’re all you have left from before.”

“All the more reason to be rid of them,” Sherlock countered primly, slouching in his armchair and snuggling his back into the cushion, very deliberately. 

“Irene, you are letting sentiment cloud your judgement,” Mycroft chided. “You must realize the impracticality of trying to hide what we are when I have wings, for heaven’s sake. I will never use them again, regardless. Like the human appendix.”

The three siblings argued, but in the end, there was little choice. If Mycroft wished to interact with the humans’ world, she had to appear human. 

“I’ll need some supplies,” John eventually sighed by way of agreement. “But we can do it tomorrow, with sunlight.”

The next morning, John and Sherlock met the sisters at the late William’s – now Harry’s – home. Through John’s and Harry’s efforts, the bright kitchen was transformed into a small surgery, the sickly-sweet scent of phenol irritating their nostrils. 

Irene did not greet them, her disapproval evident in her absence. Sherlock insisted upon watching, claiming scientific interest, but once John had Mycroft anesthetized and prone on the tarp-covered kitchen table, Sherlock went tense and staring. He hovered as John organized his tools, asking a dozen questions per minute, until Harry, acting as nurse, twitched every time he opened his mouth. His restlessness was not indicative of mere curiosity, and it was putting John on edge.

“How long will she stay unconscious like that? Have you ever had anybody wake up –”

“Look, Sherlock,” John snapped. He took a deep breath, his next words more gentle. “I know you’re –” _nervous, anxious, terrified,_ “– curious, but I really do need to focus.”

“Right, of course. I’ll keep a list of questions for later.”

“Thank you.”

John finished disinfecting Mycroft’s shoulder blades and the bases of her wings before he couldn’t take it anymore. A silent Sherlock meant a quivering, stressed Sherlock, his thoughts so loud John could practically feel them pounding in his own skull.

“Actually, I think you’d best check on Irene,” John offered, turning once again to Sherlock.

“She’s fine, just sulking,” Sherlock countered.

“He means ‘get out’,” Harry snapped, exasperated. 

Sherlock scowled at her. “I want to watch, John said I could.” He turned to John for reassurance, then stiffened when John stayed silent. “You said I could watch.”

John grimaced and resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “Your presence is a bit…distracting.”

“How will I know what’s going on if I’m not here?”

“You already know exactly what’s going to happen,” John reminded him gently. “I went over it with you and Mycroft both.”

It would be a complicated procedure, John had admitted. It would not be enough to simply amputate the wings. To remove any sign of deformity, the second scapulae would have to be entirely extracted from their cradles of muscle and tissue.

Pale eyes in a pale face flicked from Mycroft’s still form, to Harry, back to John. “Why does Harry get to stay?”

“I’m his assistant.” The ‘you idiot’ was strongly implied.

“I’ll be your assistant,” Sherlock pressed, eyes only on John.

“You don’t have the experience she has.”

Scorn twisted Sherlock’s face. “I’d hardly call it experience – ”

“Do you trust him?” Harry cut in.

Sherlock’s head whipped towards her. “What?”

Slowly, Harry repeated herself. “Do you trust John?”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Yes,” he replied, just as slowly.

“Then trust that what he’s asking is for the best. Trust his judgement.”

Sherlock’s face went carefully blank. He glanced at John again, and the doctor smiled as reassuringly as he could. It was impossible to make any promises, especially with such an invasive procedure, but having Sherlock breathing down his neck would not make things go any more smoothly.

Dark curls bounced as Sherlock nodded sharply. “Very well,” he muttered, managing not to sound overly sulky, and stalked from the room.

They were silent for a moment.

“Finally,” Harry sighed. “His fidgeting was driving me mad.”

“He’s worried,” John said shortly, not meeting her gaze.

Harry eyed him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Throughout the procedure John struggled to maintain a clinical state of mind. With every snap of feather, slice of skin, and creak of bone, John’s composure strained. His patient was not ill, did not need to be mended. This was not a tumour or an infection that needed excising. This was the destruction of something beautiful. This was debasement, mutilation. John was desperately glad Sherlock was not here to watch.

The mere idea made John feel suddenly ill. Instantly, he placed down his needle and stepped back.

Harry looked up in surprise, hands still holding the bruised banks of Mycroft’s skin together, a thin red river separating them. 

Head bowed, John watched his hands. They did not tremble, but he no longer trusted them.

“Let’s switch,” Harry offered. “I’m a much better seamstress.”

Mutely, John nodded. He squeezed the incision closed as Harry pierced and tugged, sealing the crater closed as if that would shroud the devastation beneath. 

They wrapped the immense russet-feathered wings in a white bedsheet, and John watched as red bloomed in splotches, staining the material with bloody roses. He considered using a darker sheet, but dismissed the idea. It would be insulting, he decided, as if disguising the bloodstains could possibly detract from the horror of what he’d done. 

With the heavy bundle in his arms, John left the operating room to find Sherlock and, surprisingly, Irene, sitting side by side but untouching, on a couch in the living area. They were already watching for him as he entered, and, though her face remained composed, Irene’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of him. 

“She’s fine,” John told them. “The surgery went well.”

“What do you plan on doing with them?” Sherlock asked, watching as John cradled the wings as carefully as if they were a child.

“Whatever Mycroft wants.”

“Burn them then. She’ll see no use in keeping them.”

Irene made a choked sound and jerked to her feet before stumbling out of the room. Thin-lipped, Sherlock followed her retreat with his eyes. John sighed and gently placed the wrapped wings on the low table in front of Sherlock. With deft movements, John peeled back a corner of the sheet to reveal glossy feathers.

“What are you doing?”

With careful pressure and a quick tug, John plucked a large russet feather with tawny highlights from its fleshy bedding. He held it out to Sherlock, who sat unmoving and staring. 

John leaned closer, insistent. “Take it.”

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Sherlock lightly pinched the feather between thumb and forefinger. John tugged out another two feathers and went back to the operating room to give them to Harry to pass on. One for Irene, one for Mycroft. When John returned to the living room, Sherlock was sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, the feather stashed away somewhere unseen. He was staring intently at the bloody bundle, but addressed John the moment he stepped into the room.

“This is what she wants. No reason to be upset about it.”

John had no reply. 

It wasn’t until later that John realized that Sherlock’s reassurance might not have been only for John.

*

After the third check-up, during which John noted with satisfaction the quick healing of the wounds, Mycroft tried to thank him. Something in his reaction must have revealed how unwelcome the sentiment was, because she stopped before actually saying the words.

All three Sirens had lost their wings, but only Mycroft bore John’s scars.

It would be a long time before John stopped feeling like a thief around her.

*

The moment John’s lips brushed the nape of Sherlock’s neck, John felt the vibrations of his deep voice.

“Busy.”

John held back a sigh. “Just saying good morning.” He pressed a stubborn kiss to Sherlock’s skin and ignored the urge to deliver a punishing nip.

Sherlock’s hum sounded skeptical.

Gritting his teeth, John pulled away and began preparing tea with stiff movements. 

The thing was, John understood that Sherlock did not always want him. His books, and studies and experiments came first. He thrived in the sudden influx of information, in the puzzles and discoveries and troubles of humankind. Sherlock had read more books during the nearly two months in London than John had read throughout the entirety of medical school. The Siren devoured them, an almost childlike delight on his face as pale eyes scanned line after line of text. After lifetimes of isolation, at last there was something to hold Sherlock’s interest.

John just wished that interest would shift targets sometimes.

‘I’m yours’ Sherlock had said, but the statement should have come with a disclaimer, John thought, placing a mug down with more force than was necessary. _I’m yours, but only when it is convenient for me and when nothing else holds my attention. And sometimes I don’t speak for days on end._

It had been two weeks since they’d last been intimate. Last night John had gone to bed alone and this morning John had woken up alone. Alone and restless.

John didn’t know how to take the constant rejections. The question of whether it was honest distraction, or deliberate avoidance, had circled in John’s mind for several days now. It wasn’t like Sherlock owed him anything – 

John blanched at the thought. Did Sherlock feel that, because John had helped save him, now Sherlock was stuck with him? If a sense of obligation was the only thing that kept him here…John felt vaguely nauseated. 

John swallowed hard around a mouthful of hot tea, wincing at the burn. “Sherlock,” he began tentatively. 

No response. Not even an acknowledgement. 

“You know you don’t…owe me anything, right?” John paused for a few breaths, waiting to see if his words would penetrate the dense cloud of thoughts swirling in that brilliant brain. “Sherlock?”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks,” Sherlock muttered, eyes glued to the eyepiece of his microscope, an expensive machine attained with the help of royal compensation. Even split amongst the five of them, Harry’s sudden inheritance had left them all very comfortable. 

John would trade every pound to know what was going on in Sherlock’s mad brain. 

With a scowl, John poured the tea that Sherlock would not drink and placed it by his elbow on his way to the lavatory. John understood Sherlock’s preoccupation with this new world he had been thrust into, but as he took himself in hand, he could not find it in himself to appreciate it. Pressing his mouth against his right forearm, he muffled himself so the sound of Sherlock’s name would not escape his lips.

*

Sherlock blamed the whole thing on a forensic science journal he had read. It claimed that, after a bloodstain lost its odour, it became impossible to differentiate the bloodstain from a wine or mud stain. Upon reading this, Sherlock had developed a need for a very specific chemical. For this reason, Sherlock had insisted upon accompanying John to the chemist’s. John, a practical man, had decided that, as they were already out, they may as well stop by the market on the way back as well. Eager to begin his experiment, Sherlock had already been in a foul mood by the time they’d reached the fruit wagons. The oppressive crowds and numerous smells did not help matters, but it was the apple lady that was the last straw.

Really, it was no wonder Sherlock snapped.

“It’s so rare to see a man doing his own shopping,” the vendor tittered, her nasal voice making Sherlock’s teeth hurt. “And such a handsome one, at that. Is the wife ill at home?”

John’s smile was too warm to be called polite, his eyes crinkling with amusement. Seeing that smile directed at someone other than Sherlock made the Siren bristle. 

“You flatter me,” John returned, paying more attention to the lady’s face than the fruit he was idly handling. His callused thump stroked an apple, a nearly sensuous movement. Sherlock tried to look at the woman’s appearance objectively – her features were symmetrical, her hair thick and dark, her eyes a vaguely brown colour. She did not appeal to Sherlock, but he supposed it was feasible that John found her attractive.

Taking a step closer, Sherlock hovered at John’s shoulder. The woman did not seem to notice him, her attention firmly on John.

“A bachelor, then? Still available with looks like yours?” the vendor continued, leaning over to expose her cleavage. “What do you think of my fruits, then?”

John’s laugh was interrupted by a deep snarl. Sherlock took a threatening step forward, nudging in front of John to hide him from the hateful woman. He bared his sharp teeth and loomed over her, pleased when she balked up at him and jerked back.

John gripped Sherlock’s forearm and hissed the Siren’s name.

The woman had already visibly retreated, but Sherlock was not yet satisfied. Had he still possessed wings, they would have been fully extended, feathers puffed to intimidate and impress. His cold eyes flicked over her and he cocked his head. “Husband’s left again, has he?” Sherlock bit out, watching as her face flushed with anger and embarrassment. Vendors and shoppers within earshot glanced over curiously. “You think it’s the children he can’t stand, that he comes back for you, but it’s quite the opposite – ”

A firm pinch to the thigh made him cut off with an undignified yelp. 

John ducked under Sherlock’s arm. “I am so terribly sorry,” he exclaimed to the now puce-faced woman. “He’s got brain disease, you see, can’t see faces properly –”

Sherlock opened his mouth in protest – his brain was quite magnificent, and not in any way diseased – but was interrupted by the apple lady.

“Just get away from me,” she stuttered, torn between her anger and her fear of the still glowering Siren. “If you come by me again, I’ll yell for the coppers, I will.”

“Of course,” John demurred quickly, tugging on Sherlock’s coat. “My most sincere apologies.”

Satisfied that the woman would make no further advances on his human, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled. Once it was clear Sherlock was following him, John turned and stalked away, his shoulders tense and his stride military brisk. Sherlock caught up easily, noting with amusement that 1.3 of John’s steps equaled one of Sherlock’s. 

John was the perfect size, really. If Sherlock were to wrap his arms around John from behind, he’d be at the perfect height to press a kiss to John’s occipital lobe. To nuzzle at John’s neck, Sherlock needed only slightly tilt his head. If he curled his shoulders, he could shield John, like he once had with his wings.

Basking in his success of dissuading a potential challenger, Sherlock felt the sudden need to re-establish his claim on John. But there were people around, and Sherlock was not allowed to touch John in public. 

“John,” Sherlock began.

“Shut up.”

Also, John was angry.

Sighing, Sherlock resisted recommending they catch a cab, and instead followed a step behind John, trying to get a peek of his expression. After walking several blocks in silence, John abruptly spoke.

“You are such a jealous wanker.”

“And you’re a blind fool,” Sherlock retorted, desperate to turn John around to see his face. “She was – ”

“She was teasing!” John exploded, whirling around so fast Sherlock nearly stumbled in surprise.

John’s eyes were brilliantly blue when he was angry. His thin lips were clenched to near nonexistence, his legs spread and steady, the paper bag of groceries clenched tightly in John’s fist. If Sherlock were to invade his personal space, John would grip Sherlock’s arms as tightly as his weak human strength would allow, squeezing until his fingers bit into Sherlock’s skin. If they were in the flat and Sherlock tried to kiss John in this mood, would John bite his lip? Would he force Sherlock around and cover his back with his hard body? Would he push Sherlock to his knees?

After an eternity of docile partners, Sherlock found the idea extremely enticing.

“She just wanted me to buy her product!” John continued. 

“She was propositioning you! I had no choice but to –”

“Your reaction was out of line, you had no right –”

Hissing with renewed fury, Sherlock had to force himself to turn away and keep walking. There were still people around, and John would not appreciate Sherlock’s opinion being shared with them.

The flat was just around the corner. The moment the door shut behind them Sherlock pushed John against the wall.

“I have _every_ right,” he asserted into John’s ear, lipping at the small scar left by Irene’s teeth. If John would let him, Sherlock would bite over that mark, replace it with his own and erase the trace his blasted sister had left. “That woman wanted you and I had to show her that she _could not have you_.”

With a frustrated noise, John pushed Sherlock back. “It was innocent flirting,” he argued. “Your reaction was completely inappropriate.”

Sherlock pressed an insistent thigh between John’s legs and pressed his lips to John’s neck, just as he’d imagined on the street. He really did like how he could completely cover John, especially when the smaller man was pressed against a wall.

With a strangled sound, John pushed half-heartedly at Sherlock’s chest. “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks,” he protested.

Pulling John’s collar down, Sherlock sucked a bruise into tender flesh, exulting in John’s gasp of pained pleasure. “All the more reason.”

“I’m still angry with you.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, right into John’s ear. “Punish me, then,” he rumbled.

With an irritated sound, John shoved and Sherlock acquiesced, allowing himself to be herded onto the bed.

It wasn’t until three hours later, with the bedsheets tangled and half off the bed, trails from John’s nails pleasantly stinging Sherlock’s back, and John’s sleep-slow breathing wet against Sherlock’s neck, that Sherlock remembered the blood experiment. Perking up at the thought, he slowly wriggled out from under John before slipping on a dressing gown and settling at the kitchen table.

He found himself smiling when his backside protested against the hard wooden chair. He supposed it was a good thing he’d read that journal after all.

*

The flat was too small for two men. It had been claustrophobic when John had lived here alone; sharing the space meant regular bumping into each other and no privacy. Upon waking from nightmares, curious gray eyes were the first things John saw, familiar pale face hovering over him. It always took several deep breaths to suppress the urge to thrust Sherlock away from him and flee.

They practically breathed down each other’s necks, living here, but Sherlock had literally lived in a cave his whole life and didn’t know any better, and John could not bring himself to suggest moving. It was logical for Sherlock to live with John because he had nowhere else to stay, but finding a new place with the intention of co-habiting implied a certain level of permanence, and John did not want to make assumptions. For all that Sherlock could be possessive, his apparent aloofness and impenetrable silences made John constantly question his importance to Sherlock. John…didn’t want to make assumptions.

The flat had only one bed, but Sherlock hardly slept anyway. The rare occasion he did acquiesce to the pull of sleep, the two men were forced to kip nearly on top of each other. 

John did not wish that things were different, that Sherlock was different, but John could not deny the comfort of cold toes squirming between his calves, and of rough fingertips pressing into his skin to stop him falling out of bed. It was something he had not realized he’d missed, a companionship he had not experienced since before his deployment, before war and injury had left him bitter and ungrateful, when Mary had been his constant, reliable bedmate. When Sherlock did join John for the night, the Siren’s scent, reminiscent of electric air before a storm, relieved John’s mind from the night terrors that plagued it.

When sleep eluded them both, they would go for walks just to get out. John enjoyed these outings for the much needed break from his subconscious, while Sherlock enjoyed exploring the city without having to curb his responses for the public. In fact, John would hazard a guess that these walks were one of Sherlock’s favourite activities, right up there with reading and experiments.

One day soon though, Sherlock would want to see more.

The Siren had been under constant stress on the _Defiance,_ and high emotion could easily lead to a skewed perspective on freshly made relationships. It was said that shared trauma strengthened bonds, but John knew from experience that, more often than not, victims of trauma wanted to eliminate all reminders of the ordeal. Even the people. 

It would not be unreasonable, now that Sherlock was free from all that had bound him, for him to realize he could explore the world on his own, without John slowing him down.

So John did not suggest changing flats. He grit his teeth when he stubbed his toe on one of the dozens of textbooks littering the floor. He took calming breaths when he found various slimy substances in all of the tea cups. He urged Sherlock to eat and sleep.

He felt irredeemably selfish.

*

The morning after the apple lady debacle, they began ‘human lessons’.

Tucked away in a quiet corner of a small café, hot beverages steaming on the table between them, John took a fortifying sip of tea and squared his shoulders as he faced Sherlock. Instinctively, Sherlock found his own spine straightening in response. 

“Okay, just to be clear,” John began. “I’m not asking you to change.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Technically, you are. You want to teach me how to not be myself.”

“Okay, no. I want to teach you how to not be the inhuman parts of yourself in public.”

“Which roughly translates to ‘don’t be yourself’.”

“Look, think of it this way.” John looked away briefly, glancing at the various humans chatting quietly and eating their breakfasts. “Everybody suffers through social conditioning from the moment they’re old enough to be self-aware. You’re told what’s acceptable and what isn’t, how to act in order to fit in amongst the general public. It becomes ingrained in your behaviour. People that don’t have these social skills become recluses and pariahs.”

“So, you’re calling me a savage.”

“No!” John exclaimed, and Sherlock chuckled.

Leaning back and linking his fingers, Sherlock nodded graciously. “I understand to what you’re alluding, please continue.”

John made a face at him. “Training you to be human is a lost cause,” he declared, a tad haughtily. “Instead, I shall teach you to fake it.”

“With your acting skills?” Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. The scratches on his back ached when he shifted, sending little thrills down his spine with every movement. He could not stop himself from picturing John writhing beneath him, remembered pleasure putting him in a ridiculously good mood. Teasing John was a good outlet. “I think we both know I’m the superior actor, John, but I suppose you do have the human part mostly down.”

Shifting uncomfortably, John looked down into his tea. “That’s another thing.”

“What is?”

“You need to start calling me Watson. Just when we’re out, mind.”

_‘If I’m to call you by only one name I’d like the choice of which one. I shall call you John, John.’_

_‘Calling me by my surname would be more appropriate, actually.’_

_‘Appropriate. I could not care less for your dull social customs, John.’_

“I let it go on the ship, but –” John was saying.

“Why?”

Brow furrowed, John glanced up at him. “Why did I let it go?”

Sherlock twitched his head impatiently and crossed his arms. “Why must I call you Watson?”

Stalling, John took a sip of tea and licked his lips. Sherlock’s eyes instantly focused on the quick movement. “Well, the same reason we’ll need to come up with a surname for you.”

That wasn’t an answer. As he loathed repeating himself, Sherlock stared silently until John cleared his throat.

“You must see how odd it is, here, that you only have one name.”

Sherlock nodded, conceding the point. 

“And, also, it’s very…familiar to call someone by their Christian name. Inappropriately intimate in social situations, except for married couples.”

“And you don’t want to appear familiar with me,” Sherlock inferred. 

Leaning forward, John lowered his voice. “Sherlock is the name I give you when we are in bed. Thinking of it that way, surely you can see that I cannot call you the same thing in public.”

Steepling his hands, Sherlock briefly brushed his forefingers against his lips in thought. “It’s private. You’re a private man.”

Relieved, John sat back, putting space between them. “Yes. Precisely.”

“Very well. You may begin the lesson, Watson.”

John smiled at him, pleased. “Alright, first I’ll tell you all the things you shouldn’t do.”

There was a long list of things Sherlock shouldn’t do. Said list included actions such as baring his teeth (“They’re too sharp”), growling or snarling (“It’s a very…not human sound”) and –

“Cocking my head?” Sherlock repeated, bemused.

“You look like a bloody vulture! Your lip curls and your eyes go hungry…” John shivered. “It’s downright terrifying. You scared the woman yesterday half to death with that look.”

Tilting his head, Sherlock kept his mouth closed, going for inquisitive rather than ravenous. “Is this more appropriate?”

John nodded. Wonderful. Sherlock would save the vulture look for when they were at home, then.

“And no more looming, while we’re at it. You’re intimidating enough as it is.”

Sherlock smirked, wanting to hear the direction of John’s thoughts. “In what ways am I intimidating?” 

“You’re bloody tall,” John muttered, sounding peeved. “And your features are…there’s something exotic about you. Angular and severe,” John’s eyes softened as they roved Sherlock’s face, “in some places. And your mind. All you need to do is open your mouth and anyone within earshot feels about two inches tall.” 

His voice was admiring rather than accusatory, and Sherlock’s chest swelled with pleasure.

“How did you know all that about that woman, anyway? About her husband and kids?”

Sherlock waved a casual hand. “It was elementary, dear Watson.”

John rolled his eyes. “Alright, but how?”

“Her jewelry made it clear that her husband can barely stand her.”

“Her—”

“Yes. Cheap, which could be more indicative of finances, but horribly mismatched like that? And the newest already three years old? No, those pieces were bought quickly, with little thought. Likely bought to appease her, nothing more. And the kids. There were numerous signs – spot of paint of her arm, small dirty handprint on her dress – I won’t bore you with all of them. I’ll admit the last deduction was a bit of a leap, but why else would the man keep coming back to her if not for the children?”

Slack jawed and shaking his head with amazing, John grinned. “Brilliant. Every time.”

As was John’s response, every time.

After a moment of companionable silence, John returned to the lesson. “Make sure you remember to fidget.” 

“Waste of energy.”

John frowned and nodded subtly to the fellow patrons in the small café. Sherlock followed his gaze, noting the mud on people’s shoes, the crumbs on lapels, the signs of a sleepless night, of addiction, of illness... 

“People are never really still. They tap a foot, or scratch an itch, play with their hair, bite their lips, shift their weight,” John pointed out, and Sherlock tried to shift his focus. As observant as he was, he tended to get caught up in the details and missed the general things, the small unconscious movements meant nothing at all. Sherlock’s brain tended to filter out such movements as useless, irrelevant information. A tapping foot could indicate impatience, an itch could indicated a healing wound, a shift in weight could indicate discomfort. How was Sherlock meant to notice these things and add all the trivial motions of people as well? How would he keep it all straight?

A gentle tap on the back of the hand jerked him out of his panicked musings. 

“When you are focused, you go still as stone,” John murmured, watching as Sherlock forced himself to relax.

“It’s too much.”

John frowned. “What is?”

“Seeing…everything. I already observe what I need, why should I observe what I don’t need as well?” He realized that probably did not make much sense, but miraculously, John seemed to understand.

“You don’t need to,” he reassured. “I was just trying to show you what I meant. Now that you believe me, you can go right back to seeing only what you need to see. Just remember to scratch your arm or cross your legs every once in a while.”

For a moment, Sherlock just stared, awed. It made him feel almost unbearably exposed, the way John _knew_ him. Knew him and accepted him. It was a sensation with which he was unfamiliar. For all that his sibling understood him, Irene’s and Mycroft’s interactions with him were always tinted with condescension and derision (as was common for most siblings, he imagined). 

“What?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Thank you.” He paused. “For teaching me how to be –”

“Ah – not to be,” John corrected with a smirk.

“How to fake being, then.”

John nodded, smiling. “Let’s go home, hm? I know you’re dying to repeat that experiment you’re working on.”

Sometimes it was terribly trying not hugging John in public. 

*

It took two months before Irene went crazy. Or, rather, two months before they noticed.

John was reading an article in the paper about a recent spike in animal attacks in the city when Harry burst through the door, already rambling.

“Slow down,” John urged. “What do you mean she disappears? How often has this been happening?”

“Every other night,” Harry admitted. “I have no idea where she goes.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who sat rigidly in front of his microscope.

“Have you tried asking her?” John suggested to his sister.

Harry made an exasperated face. “Of _course_ I have. Do I look like an idiot? Don’t answer that,” she snapped at Sherlock. “She’s evasive. She tells me not to be nosy, that she’s just exploring her new home.”

“We’re out often enough at night,” John commented to Sherlock, who was staring abstractedly at nothing. “And we haven’t run into her.”

“Has Irene been buying many new clothes lately?”

“What?” Harry asked. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question,” Sherlock growled, eyes snapping to her.

Hands on hips, Harry scowled at him. “Fine. Yes, she has. I told her she’d run out of money if she kept buying dresses every week.”

“How has Mycroft reacted?”

“Mycroft’s always out ‘meeting people’. She’s hardly every home.”

Sherlock made an irritated sound. “When did Irene last go out?”

“Last night.”

“And she goes out every other night exactly?”

“Whenever she thinks I won’t notice, I guess. I mean, maybe I really don’t always notice. I don’t watch her every move you know,” she said defensively.

“Alright I’ll talk to her,” Sherlock promised darkly.

Harry glanced at John in surprise, then back at Sherlock. “Well, good, then. Did you want to share a cab back?”

Sherlock threw her a quizzical look. “Whatever for?”

“So you can talk to her?”

“Oh, no, no, she’ll never admit anything if I approach her directly. Just, go home,” Sherlock directed. “Act normal. Don’t watch her tonight – read a book in your room or something.”

“You want to encourage her to leave?” John wondered. “I’m sure if you just ask her what’s wrong, she’d tell her brother.” To Harry he offered, “She’s probably just homesick.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock insisted. “In my own way.”

“You know her best,” Harry surrendered. 

For the rest of the day, Sherlock was tense and snappish. After being thoroughly insulted for asking what Sherlock wanted for lunch, John abandoned interactions for the day. He reminded himself that Sherlock was worried about Irene, and managed not to flick him in the ear like he wanted to. Instead he finished reading the paper, did the shopping, and stared speculatively at an announcement of job postings tacked to a light post. A doctor was needed for a rotation at St Bartholomew’s.

Sherlock was lying in his thinking pose on the bed when John got back, which meant the table was free for John to enjoy his dinner for one. When he was finished and Sherlock still hadn’t moved, John, shoes still on, grabbed his coat and a book. Knowing Sherlock hardly noticed his surroundings when he was like this, John moved to the bed, bent Sherlock’s knees, and sat at the foot of the bed with his back to the wall, then placed Sherlock’s legs on his thighs. With a pillow behind his back, the coat over Sherlock’s shins, he settled in to wait with his book.

It was dark out when the weight on John’s thighs shifted, jerking him out of his light doze. The sudden tingling of blood rushing back into his legs made him groan as Sherlock launched himself from the bed.

“I need to go out.”

“Oi, hold on a second,” John protested as Sherlock grabbed his coat. “Can’t feel my legs yet.”

“Yes, why were you sitting like that? You’re a doctor. From the position I’d think it would be clear that –”

“I wasn’t expecting to have to wait so long,” John grumbled, standing shakily and hopping from foot to foot. Checking his watch he saw that it had just gone half one in the morning.

“You were…” Sherlock trailed off as he glanced over John, taking in his shoed feet and the coat he was slipping on. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Uh, yes I am,” John stated. “I’m not letting you wander around alone at night while you look for your sister.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I’ll hardly be wandering. And this is a matter for Sirens. She won’t appreciate your presence.”

Pausing in buttoning his coat, John looked up in surprise. “You know what she’s doing.”

“Of course I do. She’s my sister.”

Ducking his head to hide his smile, John finished with his buttons. “I can appreciate your desire for privacy in family matters, but I’m not letting you deal with this alone. If you really want, once we find her, I’ll keep my distance.”

“John,” Sherlock protested.

“Sherlock.” John gazed at him levelly, expression serious. “This is non-negotiable.” 

Something flashed across Sherlock’s expression, there and gone too quickly for John to identify, but some unconscious reaction made him hesitate. Maybe he was being too pushy? He had to let Sherlock do things on his own, had to trust him to go out without supervision. He couldn’t cling or make a nuisance of himself. Sherlock might leave all the more quickly if he did.

“Fine,” Sherlock snapped. “You deserve to see what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Confusion smothered John’s indecision. “What?”

“Bring your medical bag.”

“You think she’ll be hurt?” John asked, alarmed, and did as he was bid.

Sherlock shook his head. “Come on.”

Sherlock swept out the door, coattails billowing behind him, and John quickly followed.

“What did you mean, ‘what I’ve gotten –”

“Hush.”

With a sigh, John fell silent and watched as Sherlock searched the streets for clues. The Siren sniffed regularly, as if his nose were running, and eventually John had to ask.

“Are you getting a cold?”

“What? No.”

“Then why are you…Wait, what are you trying to smell?”

“A trail.”

“Oh my God, are you _scenting_ for Irene?” John exclaimed incredulously.

“She’s too good to leave visible evidence,” Sherlock muttered.

“Evidence of what?”

“Shh!” Straightening suddenly, Sherlock cocked his head and closed his eyes. With his quivering nostrils and straining ears, John likened the Siren to a bloodhound, hot on a trail.

Sherlock took off and John scrambled to catch up. After a few minutes of near sprinting Sherlock slowed enough to eye John, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“Alright?” John wondered, slightly breathless.

Sherlock looked away and they slowed to a walk. “Sometimes I hate you, Irene,” Sherlock muttered.

John was utterly confused. 

Then they turned a corner.

*

The insides of humans were really quite disgusting. Miraculous, vital, but disgusting. He had read that disorder was the utmost desire of the universe, and what the universe wanted, the universe got. When insides broke free of their fleshy prison, they spilt everywhere. 

Sherlock couldn’t stop his mouth from watering. 

Irene was a canvas of murder, her body splattered with crimsons of pain and lust and hunger. Her dress was stained with dirt and blood, her lips and face obscenely red, her hair clean and neatly tied back. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear, and from behind her skirts peeked her meal’s lax hand.

Beside Sherlock, John gasped.

Sherlock closed his eyes. _This is what we are, John. Look at what I am._

“Let’s go,” he snapped at his sister, eyes still closed. The human was already dead, but not freshly so. John’s expertise wouldn’t be needed after all.

“Sherlock,” Irene choked.

His eyes snapped open. “I’m more angry with myself, really,” he said conversationally. “I figured, coming here, seeing the ways of society, you would realize our ways would need to change. Such an obvious thing, but I clearly overestimated your reasoning skills.”

Irene bared her pink-streaked teeth. “This is me, Sherlock,” she spat, stepping forward, away from the body. “This is how I’ve been for hundreds of years. It’s not easy to change overnight. It’s not easy to defy my every instinct.”

“But very easy to destroy the life we’ve built here, is it?” 

“I’m so restless, all the time. It’s driving me mad.”

John shifted as if to step forward and Sherlock gripped his arm, too tightly. John winced and Sherlock instantly let go. 

“He’s already dead,” Sherlock said flatly, not looking away from Irene.

Irene seemed unable to look at John for any significant length of time, yet still managed to sound offended. “Of course he is. My nightly excursions wouldn’t be a fraction as long if I gave in to the temptation of fresh meat. Ironically, it’s by trying to be less despicable that Harry noticed.” She hesitated, then, in a small voice: “You won’t tell her, will you?”

“Deal with your sister,” John ordered, breathing hard, “Or I will.”

The idea of human John ‘dealing with’ Sherlock’s irritated, juiced demi-god of a sister would have been laughable in different circumstances. As it was, John’s face was white with anger, his hands trembling, and Sherlock could hardly stand the thought that this would be the last memory he would have of John Watson. This disgusted, enraged expression before he demanded Sherlock leave and never come back.

Turning with military precision, John stalked back the way they’d come, leaving Sherlock alone with Irene and the corpse. 

*

When Sherlock and Irene, carrying the half-eaten corpse between them, exited the dark alleyway, John was gone. Focusing on the task at hand, Sherlock quickly helped his sister dispose of the body.

“You’ve been sloppy,” he accused her afterwards, as she cleaned her face and hands with a canteen of water she’d brought. “More than half of your meals have been found.”

“I thought I was being clever, actually, mimicking the signs of an animal attack.”

“For once in your life,” Sherlock seethed, “why could you not have practiced some self-restraint?”

Irene whirled around to face him, the corners of her lips still stained pink. “I have been! Eating off wasted, reeking corpses like a seagull.” Her face twisted in disgust. “I could have so easily given in to the temptation to seduce the handsome young man two houses over, or the new bride down at the bakery. I could have led them down a dark alleyway one night and taken _exactly_ what I wanted. I could have left their naked corpses – or what would have been left of them – in the middle of the street. Compared to that lovely scenario, I think I’ve been downright _saintly_.”

“This is a different world, Irene,” Sherlock hissed at her. “There are rules here –”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you don’t give a fuck about rules,” Irene spat. Then, “This is the world _you_ wanted, not me.” 

In the face of that statement, Sherlock fell silent. _My sisters belong to the rocks, they belong to the ocean winds_ he’d once told John.

But if Irene could not adapt, could not change her ways, what would John think of Sherlock? Would he watch carefully, every moment, for Sherlock to snap? Or would he leave rather than wait and find out?

“Look, I never actually killed anyone. Here, I mean,” she muttered petulantly, undoing the buttons of her dress. Sherlock turned away as she changed into the spare clothing she’d brought.

“Somehow, I don’t think that makes much difference.” John’s horrified gasp still echoed in his head.

“It makes all the – oh.” Irene paused. She finished dressing and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder, searching his eyes when he turned. “That boy loves you, Sherlock. More than that, he needs you. If anyone’s in trouble, it’s me. I suppose it’s too much to hope that he won’t tell Harry.”

“John is a very honest man,” Sherlock agreed somewhat absently, still mulling over ‘he loves you, he needs you’. He was also a man with strong morals, not the type of man to associate with monsters like Sherlock. Here, in the city and away from the battlefield of the ocean, his beastliness seemed especially apparent. 

The both of them fretting, the siblings parted and made their ways back to their humans.

*

The flat door was unlocked when Sherlock got back, the inside dark and silent when he entered and closed the door behind him. John’s presence made itself known by the man’s scent, sharp with anger and distress. Sherlock’s throat felt tight as he stared at the dark form of the human sitting at the kitchen table.

Both men stayed still for an immeasurable moment. The longer it went on, the longer Sherlock felt choked by the panic constricting his chest.

“We disposed of the body,” Sherlock blurted, and then wanted to bang his head against the door. As if that was what John wanted to hear. “It won’t be found,” he finished weakly. 

“It was her, wasn’t?” John’s voice sounded wrong. Flat. “The animal attacks. It was her all along.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“She never actually killed anyone,” Sherlock offered.

The answering snort of derision made Sherlock wince. He’d been right, it didn’t make a difference.

“No, she just cannibalized their corpses. I suppose if they’re homeless, it’s not so bad, is it?” John bit out sarcastically. “No one around to mourn for them. No one to question it.”

“It won’t happen again,” Sherlock said quickly, hating the brittleness of John’s voice. “She just –”

“Stop,” John snapped harshly. “I can’t –”

It felt like Sherlock’s heart stopped. This was it, then, wasn’t it. He wondered if this was what Mycroft had felt, before John had amputated her wings. This horrible anticipation of separation. Sherlock had a lot of practice by now, with people leaving him, but all his experience did not make this any easier. At least it was dark, so the memory of John’s rejection would be of his voice only. A small mercy. It might be survivable that way. 

God, he’d have to leave London, wouldn’t he. The temptation would be too great otherwise. Each street, explored with John at his side, would be a reminder. He could picture himself, so easily, stalking John from the shadows, hoping to catch a whiff of his scent. Sherlock was so used to it now, he didn’t think he’d be able to breathe without it. John was nearly always with him. Even when he wasn’t, when he was out and Sherlock was doing an experiment, his scent permeated the flat, Sherlock’s constant companion. If he was lucky, some hint of it had absorbed into Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock must have made some sort of noise, because he was surprised to suddenly find a lamp on and John in front of him, looking into Sherlock’s face with concern. 

“Sherlock,” John said, emphatically, as if he were repeating himself. Sherlock met his gaze with wide eyes, and John relaxed slightly. “There you are. You were off in your head.”

Unable to do anything but stare, Sherlock tried to fight down the panic. John was still here. John had not yet kicked him out. But now he could see him. That would make it worse.

“I know you were just defending your sister, but I was – am – angry, so it was hard to…” John trailed off, frowning. He placed his fingers against Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock closed his eyes, lightheaded. “Jesus, Sherlock.” Taking firm hold of his upper arms, John led Sherlock to the bed and pushed him to sit down. “Put your head between your knees.”

Sherlock complied without protest, his breath coming so quickly it hurt his throat. When John sat next to him, Sherlock gripped his knees with white-knuckled hands. Fingers insinuated themselves between his thigh and his arm, then gently pressed to the side of his windpipe, against his carotid artery. Sherlock inhaled desperately.

“Deep breaths, that’s it.”

Sherlock stayed in that position as his heartrate and breathing returned to normal, and then continued to stay in that position once they had. Embarrassed and confused, Sherlock let John rub his back soothingly. That…had never happened before.

“Better?”

Hesitantly, Sherlock nodded.

“Think you could sit up?”

Bracing himself, Sherlock did so, meeting John’s eyes for a moment before looking away quickly. 

When Mummy had traded Sherlock’s talons for human feet, it had taken time to get used to the new appendages. It had been difficult to balance without leaning on things, and his steps had been as unsure as a toddler’s.

What he was experiencing now felt much the same.

“You berk,” John sighed. “I wasn’t angry with you.”

Sherlock looked at him so quickly his neck twinged. “What?”

Raising his eyebrows with teasing amusement, John repeated: “I’m not angry with you.”

“You’re…oh.”

As he took a moment to process that, John got up and fetched Sherlock a glass of water. Sherlock drank readily. 

“I knew that,” he declared, pleased when John laughed.

“No you didn’t.”

Sherlock finished his water rather than reply, and John took the glass when he was done, placing it on the bedside table. Small, callused hands squeezed Sherlock’s long fingers.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” John murmured, watching their hands while Sherlock watched his expressive face. “I was just –”

“Angry with Irene. You said.”

John shook his head, still looking down. “I’m not even angry with Irene, really. I’m angry at myself.”

Sherlock twitched in surprise, regretting it when John let go of his hands in response. Instead, John stroked Sherlock’s palms. 

“I basically thrust you and your sisters into the civilised world and expected you to figure it out. To adapt and blend in effortlessly. I didn’t think of how hard it would be, after an eternity of isolation and violence,” his fingertips moved to Sherlock’s wrists, butterfly touches where rope’s teeth had once bit, “for you to cope amongst people. I should have been giving all of you human lessons.” 

Head still ducked slightly, John gave Sherlock a strained smile. It was impossible not to kiss him.

“Why weren’t you angry at me?” Sherlock murmured as they separated, still close enough to share breath.

“Why would I be angry with you?” John returned. “You’re not responsible for Irene’s actions.”

The next kiss was awkward due to Sherlock’s smile. “Neither are you.”

John hummed noncommittally, but Sherlock let it go. Irene would never do this again, he would make sure of it, so John’s misguided guilt would never again be an issue. 

Leaning back against the wall, John pulled Sherlock against his chest. “What had you in such a panic, earlier? I’ve been angry with you before and you’ve never reacted like that.” 

Sherlock grabbed his left hand and blatantly skimmed his nose against John’s wrist, inhaling deeply. “This was rather worse than other instances,” he hedged.

“True. What did you think I was going to do? Call for the police?”

“Of course not. There would have been very little point in that.” No human in their right mind would believe John’s story. 

Rather than verbally explain, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s palm and then held the hand against his chest, engulfing it with both of his. John was good at this sort of thing, the social cues thing. He’d figure it out.

After a moment, John stiffened against his back before relaxing again. When he spoke, Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice. “Sherlock, love, I’m not going to kick you out. Not ever. And…for as long as you want me here, I’m not going anywhere either.”

The words were a balm to Sherlock’s mind. “That is…good,” he breathed.

John chuckled. “Just good?”

“Very good.”

A kiss was pressed to Sherlock’s hair, and he could swear he felt John’s smile against his scalp.

“What will we tell Harry?” John wondered. “She won’t believe us if we tell her not to worry about it. And she deserves the truth.”

Sherlock nodded. “Then give it to her.”

“The truth?” he asked incredulously. 

“Well, maybe not all the gory details,” Sherlock retorted. “But it would not be harmful for Irene to face the consequences of her actions for once. It’s something we all need to learn.” Sherlock thought of the countless ships they’d lured to ruin without a thought, the men they’d seduced and eventually killed, maliciously and not. Sherlock had learned more here, with John, than all that Mummy had taught them growing up.

“Yes, alright.”

“Irene just needs to find another outlet. Something to keep her focus, some way to let her instincts reign without hurting anyone.”

*

Irene’s solution, as it were, was scandalous in the extreme and entirely fitting.

“She’s calling herself a dominatrix,” Harry told them over tea three weeks later. “Mycroft’s horrified.”

From Sherlock’s expression, the sentiment fit for him as well. “As in…?” John let it hang.

“As in a mistress. Pro-domme. A woman who dominates in the bedroom, yes.”

Even as a fairly liberally-minded chap, John had a hard time swallowing his mouthful of tea after hearing that. Sherlock had clapped his hands over his ears and was humming frantically to himself. 

“That was descriptive, thank you,” John coughed.

“Was it?” Harry’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I haven’t even gotten to the best part. She’s invented this flogging apparatus she’s calling the Adler Horse –”

The humming broke off with a distressed sort of wail.

“Oh, my God, shut up, I don’t want to know!” John gasped, laughing. 

Harry snickered into her tea as John wiped tears from his eyes and Sherlock cautiously lowered his hands, eyeing Harry suspiciously. 

“And you’re okay with this?” John inquired, thinking of how he’d feel if Sherlock were to…if he…jealousy flared up at the very idea.

Harry put down her tea. “Yes, actually.” She bit her lip. “It’s hard to explain, but she was almost…too intense. It was overwhelming. This way she can ‘get it out of her system’ as I like to say,” she smirked, “and she can make a living off of it. You wouldn’t believe some of the clients she’s had already.”

“That sounds…ominous.”

“She loves it,” Harry shrugged, looking mischievous. “And as long as her heart doesn’t stray, I’m all for it. See, she has this cat-o-nine-tails that I’ve really no interest –”

Sherlock slammed out of the flat so fast his chair tipped over.

*

Sherlock had said “I’m yours” but what he really meant was “You’re mine”. 

John suspected this because if he was not there when it was convenient for Sherlock, if he was out at the markets, or looking for the job he hadn’t told Sherlock about, or visiting Harry, then the moment he walked in the front door to the flat, he was pressed back against it. Possessive hands would grip his hips, hot breath would brush his ear and sharp teeth would graze his neck. 

“Where have you been? I’ve wanted you for half an hour and you were _gone_ ,” Sherlock would bite out, as if John was meant to sit by prettily and _be convenient_. 

“I was out,” John would retort snottily, and Sherlock would flick his gaze up and down John’s body and tut. 

“You really should stop walking through Hyde Park. The mud there is much too distinct, no challenge at all.” 

“Oh, I’m so very sorry.” John’s sarcasm was usually ruined at this point by a hand on his backside, or a tongue tasting his collarbone. “Next time I’ll go the long way ‘round, just for your entertainment.” 

“Quite right,” Sherlock would rumble, and do his best to make John’s eyes roll back in his head. 

John really should have felt more put out by these moments, but the sex always left him cross-eyed. So, in balance, he usually put up with being ignored in favour of a microscope. 

*

A sense of routine rather than restlessness had once again drawn them to the streets after dark. It was when most people were in bed and unable to distract Sherlock from the winding alleys, the unique textures of the streets, the secrets of the city. John was enjoying the view, both of a starry, cloudless sky, and of Sherlock’s intent face, contoured and shadowed by the soft light of streetlamps, severe and beautiful and a little bit alien. 

It was only because John was watching him so intently that he noticed the instant Sherlock’s attention was caught by something. John froze at the same time that Sherlock did, seeing Sherlock’s nostrils flare.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Blood,” he muttered, and darted away without further explanation. Recalling the way the Siren had once tracked his sister, John did not question him and followed, hot on his heels. 

John nearly slammed into Sherlock’s back when the man halted. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, his pupils dilated, his breath too rapid for the short distance they’d run. John watched as his long throat twitched with a convulsive swallow. 

Peering around the taller man, John saw what had caught Sherlock’s attention, and quickly rushed forward.

She lay still on the ground, whimpering and clutching at her abdomen. Her hands and skirts were stained dark, and this close even John could smell the blood. “It’s alright, I’m a doctor,” he reassured the woman, quickly shucking his coat to press to the hemorrhaging. “Deep breaths, help is on the way.” John shot Sherlock a meaningful glance.

Quickly composing himself, Sherlock gave a sharp nod and strode back into the street. He returned moments later, looking frustrated and trailed by a night constable. The men didn’t know it yet, but this would become a bit of a pattern for them.

“There, just as I told you,” Sherlock snapped at the constable. “This woman needs a hospital.”

“Constable Lestrade,” the copper introduced himself quickly. “You’ve got things handled here?” he asked John.

John nodded. “She’s already lost a lot of blood,” he warned.

Lestrade nodded and dashed back into the street, blowing his whistle to fetch a wagon.

“Elizabeth,” the woman gasped, high and panicked. “Have to…tell…”

“Hush, you’re alright now,” John soothed. “What’s your name?”

“…doesn’t know…” she choked, eyes filling with tears.

A rustle of coat announced Sherlock’s approach, and the man crouched on the woman’s other side, expression intent and focused. The spilling blood, pumped out by a still-beating heart, did not faze him this time.

“…so bright….her sun…” she whispered deliriously.

“Who is Elizabeth?” Sherlock asked, leaning into her line of sight.

“She’s in shock, Holmes,” John chided, using the surname Sherlock had adopted. “She’s speaking rubbish.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s and then focused back on the woman’s face. “Elizabeth’s son?” he insisted.

The woman sobbed and nodded. Sherlock abruptly stood and walked away as John set about calming her again. 

After several minutes Sherlock returned to John’s side, his shin pressing warmly against John’s back. “The wagon’s coming,” he stated, and though John could hear nothing yet, he trusted Sherlock’s superior senses. 

A dull gleam glinted in the corner of John’s eye. “What have you got?”

“The weapon,” Sherlock rumbled, and John could hear a smile in his voice. John glanced up to see Sherlock carefully grasping a bread knife, long and serrated, between his gloved thumb and forefinger. He was ignoring the dripping blade in favour of observing the handle with something like satisfaction on his face.

By the time the wagon arrived, the woman was unconscious, and John helped load her in the back. As the wagon pulled away, John stood watching, his hands feeling empty. 

“Good job, chaps,” Lestrade congratulated, but his expression was shrewd. “You saved a life tonight. If you don’t mind me asking, what were you doing out at this hour?”

“No time for trivialities, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Jo – Watson, you’ll want to look at this.” 

Sherlock shoved the handle of the bloody knife under John’s nose and John flinched back a bit, squinting to see in the low light. “What am I meant to be seeing?”

“Is that a…” Lestrade began, shocked. “So you did stab her!”

Sherlock sighed explosively. “Don’t be an idiot, why would I show you the attack weapon if _I’d_ done it?”

“Is that ink?” John wondered, noticing the dark blue stains on the hilt.

A blinding smile of sharp teeth flashed at him. “Precisely, Watson,” Sherlock exclaimed. “And if I understood the victim correctly, which I did, Elizabeth’s son was the attacker.”

“Who’s Elizabeth?” Lestrade cut in.

“The victim’s employer, obviously. And there’s another thing I know for sure,” Sherlock said smugly.

“Well, what is it?” John pressed.

“Elizabeth’s son is a child no more than twelve years old.”

The doctor and the copper stared at him. They spoke at the same time. “How can you possibly know that?” John asked. “How can you tell?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Look at the ink stains on the hilt, see how small they are? Only a child’s fingers fit that pattern, or perhaps a very small man.” He held out the knife for John and Lestrade. “In addition, the victim had a splatter of ink on her ear,” he motioned to his own left ear, “as though someone had flicked a pen at her. She was also wearing someone else’s clothes – her dress was slightly too large in the bust and short in the skirt. Not only that, but the quality of the dress is far above her pay grade – a woman who wears fabric like that would wear jewelry also, which the victim did not. So, a tutor, whose student had a fit earlier in the day and splashed her with ink, is on her way home from a late dinner with her pupil’s embarrassed mother, who also lent her the change of dress. The tutor is approached by her student, the boy’s hands still stained with ink. He’s nervous, the sweat on his hands smearing the ink on the knife he is clutching behind his back. Elizabeth’s son is bright, she said. Too bright for school, perhaps too bright even for his private tutor. He resents the world, resents his place in it, and takes it out on the teacher. And I wouldn’t doubt that Elizabeth is next.”

Lestrade and John gaped at him for several heartbeats. 

“That is brilliant!” John exclaimed, watching Sherlock’s cheeks flush.

“Well, that’s a lovely tale, Mr…?”

Sherlock lifted his chin. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And it’s simple observation, no tale. Do you want to be a night constable for the remainder of your career, Lestrade?”

The constable spluttered. “Well, no, of course not.”

“And I imagine you would want to stop another murder attempt?”

“Why even ask such a thing?”

“Then trust me and do exactly as I say,” Sherlock recommended, so gravely that both men found themselves nodding automatically. 

A quarter hour later, they found the boy, who lived with his mother upstairs from the family’s small bakery, as he snuck out of the kitchen, a fresh knife in hand. The child was easily apprehended, despite his struggles and his mother’s hysterics. Sherlock gave Lestrade full credit for the case, Lestrade received a promotion, and Sherlock and John became regular aids on Lestrade’s cases.

Together, Sherlock and John came up with the business card:

Sherlock Holmes

Consulting Detective

*

Sherlock knew that John had been waffling over that position at St. Bartholomew’s hospital for weeks, but the sudden birth of Sherlock’s métier had been the final push he’d needed. With Sherlock busy with cases and occasionally bringing in a profit, John had declared:

“I’ll not be your kept man. I need to pull my weight in this relationship.”

And so Sherlock had reluctantly allowed the man to apply for the position, which he had invariably received. It was regrettable, because John was a great help on his cases, and Sherlock hated sharing John’s attentions. Yet, when John came home after a shift, exhausted but proud, regaling Sherlock with idiotic accidents and the many lives saved, Sherlock could not find it in himself to complain too forcefully over his absence.

It was for this reason, with John at work, that Sherlock was alone when Irene knocked unexpectedly on the flat’s door one afternoon. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he took in his callers.

Irene, disheveled and wrapped in a long trench coat, was half carrying a short, middle-aged, unhappily married woman. What was surprising, however, was the state of the stranger’s face. Sherlock eyed the angry reds and pinks, quickly darkening to violent blues and purples, marring an already swollen face as he ushered the women in. 

“She followed her husband to the club,” Irene said without preamble, setting the woman down on the neatly-made bed. The collar of the trench coat had slipped open, revealing a thin black leather strap bisecting Irene’s collarbone and a red score licking her neck. “He’s one of my more regular clients and was, as you can see, not pleased to see her there.”

Sherlock tugged down Irene’s collar, hissing at the red welts and raised lines covering her upper back.

She turned to face her brother with a frown. “My clients get what they pay for. Mr. Hudson enjoys being the thrasher rather than the thrashed.” She shrugged. “I heal quickly.”

“And you used to mock me for my self-destructive tendencies,” Sherlock muttered, hands itching to wrap around this Mr. Hudson’s neck.

Irene crossed her arms and jerked her chin towards the half-unconscious Mrs. Hudson on the bed. “I didn’t know where else to take her. It’s not like I could explain her state to the authorities – ‘yes, see, her husband beat her at my sadomasochistic brothel and I had to tie the man up to stop him’ – yes that sounds wonderful. I’ve already lost him as a client and –” she glanced at the clock on the bedside table and scowled “damn, my next client is going to be furious…” 

With that, Irene tightened her coat and headed for the door.

“You’re just going to leave her with me?” Sherlock exclaimed, outraged.

Irene paused and looked around, seeming to take in her surroundings for the first time. “Where’s John?”

“At work!”

“Oh.”

*

Irene left her with him.

Muttering angrily to himself, Sherlock nonetheless went about filling a large bowl with fresh water and grabbing a clean towel. He paused in front of the bed, looking down at the now sniffling woman, and cursed John for not being here.

“If you would look up I’ll see what I can do about your face.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a little hiccupped sob and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “Oh, I’m being silly. I’m just so embarrassed.”

As she spoke, her split lip, cut with a diamond ring it looked like, set to bleeding again. Something in Sherlock’s usually cold heart twisted at the sight, and he knelt in front of her so they were nearly at eyelevel with each other.

“Your husband beat you and a prostitute just abandoned you in a strange place. I’d say some hysterics are permissible.”

Steadying her head with a gentle finger under her chin, Sherlock began carefully wiping the blood away with the damp cloth.

“I knew he’d be angry when I followed him, but I’m just so sick of the all the lying and partying and drugs. I mean, he might run the place, but I still see what’s going on,” she told him, eager for a sympathetic ear.

Sherlock paused in his ministrations, his interest piqued. He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m a _dancer_ , you see.”

Both eyebrows now raised, Sherlock chuckled and pressed the cool cloth against a swollen cheekbone. “How did I not see that?”

Mrs. Hudson winced. “You were distracted, I’d imagine.”

“Mm, yes, you are quite the sight right now.”

“And you’ve terrible manners, young man!” she chided. “Insulting an injured lady.”

It was odd being called ‘young man’ by this human who was only a fraction of his age. In appearance, he supposed, Mrs. Hudson was old enough to be his mother.

“Didn’t even offer a cup of tea,” she teased, patting the back of his hand.

“Of course, how terribly rude of me.” Smiling, Sherlock handed her the cloth and rose to put on the kettle. “I’ve done all I can, I think. My flatmate will be back soon. As a doctor, he will be much better equipped to help.”

“You share this tiny flat?” she cried, sounding horrified at the thought.

At the worktop, Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said.” He supposed the space was rather small for two men, but it suited them well enough.

“With only the one bed?”

Sherlock froze. John was a private man, he reminded himself. “We keep opposite schedules,” he explained. “I usually work nights.”

“Of course, dear,” she replied, as if humouring him. “But I’ll have you know that I’ve seen all sorts – there’s not much that can surprise this old bat.”

Christ, John was going to kill him. He poured the tea and didn’t answer.

“You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? Miss Adler said you could help me.”

*

When John came home to find a woman in the flat, a woman chatting amiably with Sherlock, no less, he would hesitate to say it was the most surprised he’d ever been. John would hesitate because the night before he had opened the cutlery drawer to find a perfectly preserved, whole tarantula corpse, eight furry legs and all. So he would hesitate to say it was the most surprised he’d ever been, but he was still nonetheless very surprised, albeit less unpleasantly so.

“Ah, Watson, may I present Mrs. Martha Hudson. Mrs. Hudson –”

“Dear Lord, what has happened to you!” John rushed forward, gently tilting the woman’s head to take in the recent bruises and contusions on her face.

“See, just as I told you, Mrs. Hudson. He simply can’t resist –”

“Holmes,” John snapped, stepping back from Mrs. Hudson who was glancing between the two of them. “What is going on?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We’ve a case, Doctor!”

John did a proper check-up on Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock explained the situation, tutting as he found the marks of rough hands at her wrists and on her back as well.

“If, as Mrs. Hudson believes, her husband did murder someone the other night, then it should be easy enough to find evidence. That, in addition to the obvious signs of abuse and various other scandals, should be more than enough to get a conviction, even a death sentence.”

The sigh Mrs. Hudson gave was one of relief and John furrowed his brow. “Have you got any family nearby you can stay with in the meantime? We can’t send you back home with that monster there.” 

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Just my sister in Keswick. But Frank will be fine, really. He’s got an explosive temper but he’s not one to hold a grudge. I’m sure he’ll be downright apologetic once he sees me.”

Both Sherlock and John protested instantly. “Out of the question,” Sherlock told her. “Not a chance,” John agreed.

“She could stay here for the night?” John looked to Sherlock. 

“Oh, boys!”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s the logical solution.”

“Feel free to anything we’ve got in,” John told her, ignoring her half-hearted protests and preparing a cloth filled with ice.

“But I really can’t kick you out –”

“We’ll be out all night, anyway, Mrs. Hudson.” John handed her the ice pack. 

“John’s right, Mrs. Hudson, we’ve got work to do.”

Neither man had caught Sherlock’s slip up. Mrs. Hudson watched with fond gratefulness as they left the flat, an excited bounce in both their steps. 

She looked around the tiny kitchen. Perhaps she could bake some cookies to pass the time.

*

“This doesn’t seem like one of your usual cases,” John murmured as they snooped around the back alley where a man had been found two nights ago with his head nearly blown off.

“No?” Sherlock murmured distractedly, crouching down and pulling out his magnifying glass.

“Well, it’s not much of a puzzle, is it,” John commented.

Sherlock made a frustrated sound, standing back up. “There’s nothing of use here.”

“We already know who did it –”

“No, I know who did it. You do not.”

“What? Mrs. Hudson said herself –”

Emerging back onto the street, Sherlock gave John a scolding look. “Just because someone says so, does not make it true.”

“Well, who did it then, if you know?”

“Frank Hudson.”

“Holmes! You just said –”

“That you cannot base your accusations solely on the word of others, which is what you were doing. I, however, have found strong proof of his presence at the murder scene.”

“You said there was no usable evidence!”

“No usable evidence, but evidence nonetheless. When Irene dropped off Mrs. Hudson earlier today, she had come straight from the club, in quite a hurry. She was wearing her client’s coat. The lingering hints of scent in that back alley match those of the coat exactly.”

John shook his head, amazed and amused. “All I’m saying is, I don’t think you agreed to this case for the intellectual exercise.”

“Nonsense.” 

John smirked.

*

By eleven o’clock that evening, they had the evidence they needed and were knocking on Lestrade’s office door.

“Hello, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock greeted smugly. “Would you care to know who murdered Mr. Jeffrey Lang two nights ago?”

“What! How do you even know about – oh, forget it, come in, come in.”

*

They’d actually managed to connect Frank Hudson to another murder that had happened a couple hours later that night, in another bar across town.

“Two brutal murders and the domestic abuse,” Sherlock informed Mrs. Hudson, nearly gleeful, “make up an indefensible charge. Would you like to watch the arrest?”

She did.

*

Sherlock and John, with Mrs. Hudson between them, watched as a struggling Frank Hudson was dragged out of 221 Baker Street, screaming abuse the whole way. 

“You know, the flat will seem so empty now,” Mrs. Hudson commented with a touch of sadness. “Just me, alone, when there’s really two usable sets of rooms. Well, three, but there’s this terrible mold in the basement that I just can’t seem to get rid of.”

At the mention of mold, Sherlock perked up with interest, meeting John’s eyes over Mrs. Hudson’s head. 

“Oh, and you boys are sharing that awful flat. No offense,” she said quickly, “but you’re just so cramped in there. And I have all this extra space going to waste.”

John chuckled and nodded to Sherlock, who grinned and wrapped a light arm around Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders.

“Are you offering to become our housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Landlady, dear! Not your housekeeper. And I’ll be charging rent,” she told them sternly.

“Well, it just wouldn’t be right, letting you live all alone after such an ordeal,” John agreed. “I suppose we’ll have to accept.”

*

They kept separate rooms in Baker Street, at John’s insistence, though more often than not the bed upstairs went unused. The bed in Sherlock’s room was luxurious in comparison to that of their old flat, large enough that even if he did not wish to sleep, Sherlock could lie beside John while thinking. It was extremely efficient in that he could do brainwork while simultaneously monitoring John’s breathing and facial expressions. Should his breaths stutter or quicken, his face pinch or tense, Sherlock needed simply stroke a soothing hand through his hair, or shuffle closer until John’s weak human nose could detect Sherlock’s scent, which seemed to calm him miraculously. 

If, by dawn’s first rays of sunlight, when the threat of nightmares had surely passed, Sherlock found himself with his hand still in John’s hair, it was only so that he could better observe the individual strands. The colours of John’s hair were really quite diverse and captivating, a medley of bronze and gold and, if the sun reflected just right, the slightest auburn hint. And every now and then a bold silver strand nestled among the rest, marking John’s age with dreaded inevitability. 

Sherlock’s curls were still solid, inky black. Every last strand. 

As he nuzzled John’s hair with his lips, attempting to discern colour through texture alone, he found himself hoping, praying that, along with his talons and wings, Mummy had taken his immortality as well.

*

On the rocks, all the men that Sherlock had seduced had been under the influence of his Song. Too awed and lustful had they been to feel ashamed or disgusted or embarrassed. In fact, it wasn’t until he had come to London that Sherlock had even been aware that there was anything shameful about sexual intimacy between men. After all, what did gender have to do with pleasure and attraction?

So, it made sense for a private man like John to be uncomfortable with public displays of affection, especially from men, for the intimacy they implied. After all, sex was a very private matter amongst most humans. For a long time, Sherlock assumed that was John’s view, that a professional handshake was the limit of his comfort, and did not push the matter.

But the longer they were in London, and the larger their circle of friends and acquaintances grew, the more Sherlock saw that a general aversion to touch was not accurate.

Mrs. Hudson was forgivable, as the woman would simply not take no for an answer. On the doorsteps to 221 b, Mrs. Hudson regularly hugged both Sherlock and John in full view of the street, a gesture they both returned readily enough.

At a crime scene, Sherlock crouched over the body and John and Lestrade standing on the sidelines, Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye as John said something that made Lestrade laugh. He did not flinch when Lestrade slapped him affectionately on the back.

Then there was the seamstress down the block, who insisted upon kissing John’s cheek every time he came to her with ripped trouser knees and gaping coat seams. 

Worse was the old army mate, back from service, who had run into Sherlock and John one day, who had engulfed John in a painful looking embrace and had continued to hold one of John’s hands in both of his as he’d informed Sherlock, “If it weren’t for Captain Watson, I’d’ve been dead in a ditch three years ago.” Rather than pull away, John had simply gripped the man’s forearm and had asked how he’d been faring with civilian life.

“And how’s sweet Mary?” the soldier had wondered, noticing the ring John had taken to wearing on his left hand since moving into Baker Street. 

John had sobered at the question. “She passed away a year ago,” he’d admitted, looking down and twisting the ring around his finger.

“Blimey, mate,” the man said gruffly. “That’s dreadful to hear.”

John had simply nodded and redirected the conversation.

Yet, when Sherlock so much as brushed John’s coat sleeve, John flinched away as if burned. When he requested John observe something at a crime scene, John would wait until Sherlock had stepped back before approaching.

By observation, it was only Sherlock that John could not abide touching in public. 

And what could Sherlock deduce from that?

*

“This is my friend, Dr. John Watson.”

“Colleague.”

*

The suspect they were chasing obviously had no idea where he was going, because in one more turn he would find himself at a dead end. Sherlock was letting John lead, slightly exasperated with the whole thing, while Lestrade’s gasping breaths could be heard several paces behind.

Oh, and would you look at that. Dead end.

The suspect whirled around, desperate for an escape route, increasingly frantic when he couldn’t find one.

“Well, this has been dreadful,” Sherlock informed him. “You’re not nearly as intelligent as you look.”

The man’s eyes flashed, his body reacting with animal panic, and lunged. 

Sherlock saw his intent, saw the knife in his hand, saw the destination of the uncontrolled flail. With his Siren reflexes, he would even be fast enough to remove the target before impact. But it would necessitate grabbing John’s hand.

Lestrade was right behind him.

Sherlock hesitated.

The knife slid into John’s thigh like it belonged there, effortless in its severing of skin and fat and muscle. For a moment, feeling suspended in time, Sherlock could only watch, entranced. Then John collapsed with a gasp and the suspect made to flee.

Sherlock snatched the villain’s collar and threw the man into the cement wall without a thought. His head collided with brick and his body crumpled like a ragdoll. Sherlock picked him up and slammed him into the wall again. Again.

“Holmes!”

The scent of John’s blood filled his nostrils. He needed to replace it with another’s blood.

“Sherlock!”

John’s voice froze him in place. His jaw ached with the urge to bite and tear, and the violence of that craving made him release the suspect and step back.

“Christ, is he alive, Lestrade?” John called.

The DI knelt and pressed his fingers into the unmoving man’s neck. “Barely.” He looked up at Sherlock, eyes unreadable. “Holmes, see to Watson. You’d better hope the suspect is still alive by the time I’m back with the ambulance.”

 _I’m not allowed to touch John while you’re here_ he almost said, but Lestrade had just given him permission. 

Silently he knelt at John’s side, seeing his pale face and hearing his pained gasps, the knife protruding horrifically from his thigh. This could have been so easily avoided.

“Don’t pull it out,” John told him, voice tight. 

“I know.” Instead he pulled off his coat, rolled it up, and placed it under John’s head.

“You’ll get cold,” John protested, shivering already. Shock.

Tearing a strip off of his shirt, Sherlock carefully wrapped the cloth around the wound, trying to quell the flow of blood.

Off to the side, the suspect moaned. Sherlock wanted to wrap a hand around his throat.

*

Sherlock didn’t follow John to the hospital. The temptation to hold onto him and never let go would have been too great. The temptation to find the suspect and murder him in his hospital bed even greater.

“What were you thinking, attacking the man like that?” Lestrade hissed at him as the two injured men were driven away.

“It was self-defense,” Sherlock said dully. “He attacked Watson.”

“ _That_ was not self-defense.” He pointed to the wall, where blood from the suspect’s head wound had left a stain. “That was inhumane.”

Sherlock nearly laughed, feeling his lip curl. “If he’d killed Watson, he would not have got out my clutches alive.”

Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock turned to walk away.

“I could arrest you for saying things like that.”

“You need me too much.”

“People are going to ask questions. They’re going to talk.”

“People do little else.”

*

He ignored Mrs. Hudson when he got home. He walked up the stairs, perched in his chair with his coat and shoes still on, and waited.

His senses were on overdrive. The ticking clock sounded like hammering, the creaks of the house like screams, the thudding of horses’ hooves like thunder. Scents burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. His clothing itched and his mouth tasted like iron.

If he’d been able to move, he would have found John’s supply of morphine and injected it straight into his bloodstream, just to slow everything down. Just to dull the sharp edges of his mind.

On second thought, that would just make the waiting even longer.

So Sherlock sat and trembled and waited.

Waited.

*

“I’ve taken care of it,” Mycroft said, leaning on a brolly, a hideous lavender thing.

When had she gotten here?

“Ten minutes ago.”

Oh. That was annoying.

“Yes, well, so was your little hissy fit.”

He’d done what he’d had to.

“John’s fine, by the way. The knife missed the femoral artery, as I’m sure you’ve realized. He’ll be free to go in three days.”

She’d seen him? 

“No, but I have my sources. You should see him yourself, if you can find the courage.” She gestured at the plate of cold meats and toast that had materialized on the coffee table. “And do eat something, Sherlock. You are much too thin.”

Piss off.

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll see myself out.”

She closed the door behind herself. Not once had Sherlock said a word.

*

Mrs. Hudson opened the door for Harry when Sherlock ignored his doorbell, but she did not lead her upstairs. After Sherlock had all but snarled at his landlady yesterday, she had not so much as set foot on the stairs to the flat. Nerves frayed and harshest instincts close to the surface, the solitude suited Sherlock.

Alternating between his pipe and cigarettes, Sherlock had gone through a week’s worth of tobacco in twenty four hours, turning the sitting room murky with smoke. The first thing Harry did when she let herself in was begin coughing.

Crossing the room with a hand over her nose, Harry forced her way through books and papers to the windows, which she threw open. Perched in his chair with a cigarette between his lips, Sherlock waited for her fury, for her accusations and recriminations. Glowering, she stalked over to stand in front of him. He looked up at her, face blank.

With a sound of disgust, Harry plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, took a drag for herself, and stubbed it out on the overflowing ashtray. Sherlock’s tongue felt numb.

Harry had been to the hospital, the sting of antiseptic and the reek of illness clung to her clothes.

“Why haven’t you been to see him?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, half hoping she would strike him. It would do them both good.

“Will seeing him help him heal faster?”

He watched her hand twitch, before clenching into a fist as she reigned in that explosive Watson temper.

“He’s in pain, and he’s worried about you,” she gritted out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Don’t they give medication to their patients?”

“He’s refusing the morphine.” She looked towards the window, eyes suddenly damp. “Reminds him of when he was shot, I think.”

For a long moment they were frozen in this tableau, Sherlock hunched and ruminating, and Harry leaning over him, waiting for some reaction.

“I don’t know what this,” she gestured broadly to Sherlock, “is. I don’t know if this is you feeling sorry for yourself, or guilt, or what, but John wants you, so you will bloody well go see him.”

“That would be unwise,” he breathed.

“I will carry you there myself if I have to,” Harry threatened.

“I’d like to see you try.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

*

John was expecting a nurse when his curtain was pushed aside. Instead, it was Sherlock that peeked in, and John jerked to sit up in surprise. Pain flared through his leg, up his hip and all the way to his skull. He could feel the blood leaving his face as he gasped and froze, blinking dark spots from his vision.

Cool fingers were a sudden relief against heated skin, stroking across his forehead, down his nose and along his cheekbones. 

“You moron,” Sherlock hissed, close to his ear. “Why won’t you take the morphine? You are not doing yourself any favours in refusing it.”

John shook his head and grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, keeping him close. He smelled strongly of tobacco. “Can’t tell what’s real,” he gasped, breath still unsteady.

Sherlock pressed his brow to John’s before pulling away. John resisted at first, but quickly dropped his wrists when a nurse walked in. Sherlock took a step back from the bed.

“Dr. Watson,” she greeted, brandishing a syringe. “Mr. Holmes informed me that you’ve have had a change of heart?” 

John glanced at Sherlock, panicked. “No, I really don’t –”

“Watson, if you don’t relax it will take you twice as long to heal. If you have any doubts, just ask me.”

“You’ll stay?” John begged.

Sherlock nodded.

John closed him eyes in both pain and resignation. “Fine.”

*

_“You’ll stay?”_

With John’s request, Sherlock was no more capable of leaving his side than had he been hand-cuffed to the bed.

Even as he slept fitfully and moaned his late wife’s name, Sherlock stayed. He stroked John’s hand when they were alone, and left the ring where it was. 

This could have been so easily avoided.

*

For the remainder of John’s stay in hospital, Sherlock was distant. Physically he was always close by, quick to reassure John when he woke from nightmares, there to provide a distraction as John lay bedridden and bored. But it seemed to John that there was a screen between them, showing Sherlock’s general features, but obscuring the deeper thoughts and emotions. At times John would wake from his drug induced sleep, his mind slow as treacle, and Sherlock would be tense at his side, his eyes flat and emotionless. 

John didn’t know what to make of Sherlock’s odd mood, and he was in no fit state to spend energy on pondering over it. 

*

When the doctor provided John with a cane, Sherlock eyed it with disgust, but did not offer John his arm instead.

The cab ride home was silent, but not companionably so. Ego bruised and leg on fire, by the time they’d struggled their way up the stairs to the flat, where Sherlock promptly abandoned him in favour of his violin, John’s patience was in tatters. 

“You didn’t have to come, you know. To the hospital.”

“I did actually,” Sherlock retorted, not turning from the window. “Your sister made that quite clear.

John refused to be sidetracked. “Was it pity that made you visit me?” Rather than sit down, he shifted and leaned on the cane to relieve his leg. “Pity for this mere mortal, put out of commission by a knife alone?”

Sherlock sighed and plucked at a string.

Painfully, John limped closer. “For all that your body is with me, your mind is elsewhere. So tell me, what is it that has so ensnared the great mind of Sherlock Holmes this time?”

Sherlock’s fingertips were white where he squeezed the violin’s neck.

“For God’s sake, say something!” John grabbed his shoulder with his free hand.

With a snarl, Sherlock whirled around and manacled John’s wrists with his fingers. The cane clattered to the floor.

“ _Pity_ ,” he spat, face twisted with such rage that John was struck speechless. “How can you speak of pity when it is I that has to beg for every scrap of affection? Why is it that I am not allowed to touch you? Everyone else is allowed – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, that awful sewing lady – but not me. Why only not me? Are you ashamed of me? Is that it?”

Utterly shocked, John took a step back and nearly collapsed. Sherlock’s eyes widened in dismay, and he wrapped his arms around John before lifting him, effortlessly, and placing him on the couch. He knelt and ripped open John’s trousers to reveal the bandages underneath.

“Sherlock!” John protested, still catching his breath.

The Siren bowed his head and pressed his lips to John’s thigh, just under the bandage. Leaning back and placing his hand on Sherlock’s head, John waited, letting them both calm.

“We touch each other all the time,” he murmured at last.

“Not where anyone can see,” Sherlock mumbled into his leg. “You’ve never allowed me that.”

John stroked Sherlock’s hair, his stomach tight with guilt. Lightning quick, Sherlock snatched his hand and pressed quivering fingers to the simple gold band that encircled John’s ring finger. 

“And this.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. “Why do you insist upon wearing this? This symbol of your love for another?”

“It’s –”

“I could have pulled you out of the way so easily. Pulled you out of the way and snapped his neck in a second, but Lestrade was there, and you hate when I touch you where others can see. Should I so much as tap your shoulder, you flinch and startle. Should my hand brush yours, you jerk away as if burned. I do not understand –”

Watching as Sherlock’s mask crumbled, John felt his eyes sting with tears. Unable to bear it any longer, John seized Sherlock’s head and crashed their lips together, kissing him for the first time in days. 

“My love,” he gasped as they separated. “Will you ever forgive my callousness?” 

“I will never be human, you said so yourself. I could never replace Mary –”

John squeezed his eyes shut in horror and crushed Sherlock to his chest. “No. No, you are perfect exactly as you are. You are not and have never been a replacement.”

Stroking his back, John waited until Sherlock had quieted before speaking again.

“I owe you a thousand apologies,” he whispered. “I’ve been blind and overcautious. I’ve been so afraid that we would be discovered. What we have, what we feel for each other is quite illegal, surely you’ve realized.”

Sherlock pulled back, and John loosened his arms to allow it. “I’d never be so foolish as to touch you in a manner that would give us away. Men touch all the time. You and Lestrade are downright affectionate with each other.”

Grimacing, John stroked the Siren’s prominent cheekbones with his thumbs, wiping away the moisture there. “I allow, and even return, Lestrade’s gestures because I do not have romantic feelings for him. It is quite different with you. Like I said, I’ve been overcautious. I’m afraid that even the most innocent gesture could spark an onlooker’s suspicion. Should my friendship with Lestrade be investigated, there would be nothing to find. But our relationship…I fear my love for you is so obvious, a blind man could see it.” He smiled.

Sherlock leaned back, regaining his usual control, but allowed John’s hands to grip his.

“And this?” Sherlock stroked the wedding band that had once hung from John’s neck.

“Another precaution,” John whispered, staring down at their hands. “If I’m still mourning my wife, it is a good excuse for my satisfaction with a bachelor’s life for the foreseeable future. I meant for the ring to be protection for us. I should have explained it to you. I forget, sometimes, that you cannot actually read minds.”

With a hum, Sherlock bowed his head and lifted John’s left hand. John gasped as wet heat engulfed his finger. Starting at his knuckle, Sherlock sucked down the length of John’s finger, teeth grazing skin and wrenching a soft moan from John’s lips. When Sherlock sat back again, John’s ring glinted from between his teeth.

Eyes heavy-lidded, John watched as Sherlock pinched the ring between thumb and forefinger, turning it this way and that a he observed the offensive band of gold.

“Would you allow me to buy you a replacement?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John’s.

John’s eyes widened. “Er…”

“I find it…more than distasteful, you see, this ring that represents your attachment to another when it is _me_ that you belong to.” A smooth, rumbling quality infused Sherlock’s voice, reminding John of the Siren’s Song. “It is _my_ ring that should encircle your finger, _my_ name which should fill your thoughts, _my_ –”

Feeling almost hypnotized, John could only whisper, “Yes?”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “My love which should captivate you.”

John’s smile was nearly blinding, he was sure of it. “You beauty.” He pulled Sherlock into a kiss, trying to express all his joy and love and gratitude with the embrace. 

“Is that a yes?” Sherlock asked, breathless. “I can have it made nearly identical, so no one will notice. I just have a small variation in mind.”

John held out his hand and smiled as Sherlock pushed the ring back onto his finger. “I’d marry you if I could, Sherlock. Of course you can buy me a new ring. I think it’s brilliant.”

Sherlock beamed, his smile almost boyish and terribly endearing. The Siren’s lips were irresistible, so John pulled their faces together again before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s ear and murmuring what else of Sherlock’s could fill John.

Sherlock’s choked sound was equal parts horror and amusement, but he pulled John towards the bedroom regardless. 

*

Sherlock began touching John as much as he could get away with. He would gleefully offer an arm as they walked down the street, he would tap John to get his attention at a crime scene, he would subtly brush John’s thigh when they were in a cab. 

He understood now, John’s reticence with touch where judgmental eyes could see. He knew now the threat of imprisonment, of chemical castration, of capital punishment. 

“I’m too valuable for Lestrade to ever allow that to happen,” Sherlock had tried to assuage John.

“Lestrade is not all powerful.”

“Perhaps not, but Mycroft nearly is.”

And it was true that, with her talent with manipulating, mooching and skulking, Mycroft had somehow positioned herself as the woman behind nearly every powerful man in England. Hardly a decision was made for the country without it passing by her first. Sherlock would have been impressed if he weren’t so horrified by the prospect. 

The best part, though, of John’s new touching allowance, were the Bartitsu and fencing lessons. These lessons had two purposes. Mainly, they calmed Sherlock with the knowledge that, faced with an assailant, John would be able to defend himself if Sherlock were unavailable. Additionally, these lessons made up for the constant careful distance they kept when they were out of the flat.

Here, they could fight bare-chested, John glistening and slippery with sweat, his muscles straining and his breath pushing out in grunts. It was nearly pornographic and it was completely, miraculously acceptable. 

*

When in bed one night, John asked why Sherlock refused recognition for his work and Sherlock scoffed. “I care not what humans think of me, nor do I want the life of a celebrity. It is the puzzle that arouses my intellect.”

Something on John’s face must have shown his displeasure, because Sherlock sighed and pulled John into an embrace. “I care not what _other_ humans think of me,” he corrected himself. “ _My_ human is a whole other matter.” 

*

Their suspect was a skilled climber, as asset that was being put to good use as the pursuit took them to the rooftops. 

Up ahead, Sherlock’s long legs sliced the air, his greatcoat billowing behind him as he sprinted. “Faster, John!” he barked, barely winded.

John was tempted to curse, but couldn’t spare the breath. He was beginning to suspect that the alleged murderer knew these rooftops better than even Sherlock. Every time it seemed that Sherlock and John were catching up, the suspect would take an unexpected turn, or scale a perilously thin ledge, and he’d be once again just out of reach. 

Only the moon and the stars illuminated their path, but there, just ahead, was a pool of inky darkness: a gap between buildings, too large to jump. John’s thighs burned, but he pushed forward, wringing an extra burst of energy from his drained muscles. Sherlock was practically flying.

The suspect barely slowed as he approached the edge, and John wondered, for an insane moment, if he would try to clear the divide.

“It’s no use!” Sherlock shouted at the man, a touch of glee infusing his tone. “You’ve nowhere to go!” 

The suspect turned just long enough to glance back at them, and John’s stomach clenched. That was not the expression of a trapped man. With a smirk, he took a step and disappeared over the ledge.

Shock made John hesitate, allowing Sherlock to pull further ahead. Was death really preferable to being caught? Expecting to find a splattered corpse on the street below, John was uncomprehending in response to Sherlock’s snarl, a sharp, inhuman sound. He was too slow to stop the detective from lunging and following the villain into the void.

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

It was more of a wheeze than a shout, exertion and horror stealing John’s voice. As he surmounted the seemingly endless stretch of rooftop between him and the edge, he wondered if Sherlock had been relying on his wings to stop his fall. If Sherlock’s last thought, before hitting the cobblestones below, was a horrified recall of the parts of him that were missing.

John leant over the edge of the roof and saw Sherlock’s sprawled form, the suspect struggling weakly beneath him.

A bolt of fear shot through John’s core, making his heart clench tightly in his chest, and he swore harshly. Looking around the roof, he quickly found and utilized a fairly safe method of descent on the opposite side of the building, ignoring the burn of scratches and torn skin. He was dashing around to the other side the moment his feet hit the pavement. 

He rounded the corner, gripping his pistol tightly, the one Sherlock had gifted him to replace the one he’d lost five years ago on the _Defiance_.

“Sherlock,” he called again as the two men came into view. As John approached, he saw that Sherlock was dazed but conscious, his Siren resilience likely the only thing that had saved him from a nasty concussion. Sherlock was gripping the wriggling suspect tightly, fingers like claws, his top lip curled in a snarl, and threatening growls ripping from his throat.

At that sound, John froze a few feet away, alarm flooding his system. “Shit.”

The suspect was panting, eyes wide with fear, instinctively struggling to escape the feral beast that pinned him to the ground. He didn’t seem to notice his broken wrist or the freely bleeding gash on his forehead.

“Don’t move,” John ordered harshly, aiming the pistol at the suspected murderer in warning. His finger wasn’t touching the trigger, but the man stilled anyway, suitably cowed. John didn’t much care about him at the moment, other than the potential he had to turn Sherlock completely savage. The more he struggled and acted like prey, the more riled up the Siren would become, until Sherlock was pulled under the tide of his bloodthirsty instincts. “If you value your life, stay utterly still,” John insisted, then lowered the pistol as he crouched at Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock’s eyes were almost all pupil, and John could see the struggle in them, the vicious Siren raging against Sherlock’s human side. There was a wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyebrows, and his hands clenched but did not tear, his teeth bared but not biting. It had been a long time since John had seen his control slip so badly.

John was most strongly reminded, in moments like this, of the ancient and magic blood that ran through Sherlock’s veins. But rarely did Sherlock ever lose his humanity entirely. 

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John murmured soothingly, lips nearly brushing his ear. “Sherlock, it’s John. You’re alright now. Everything’s fine, Sherlock. Hush now,” he rambled, trying to silence those teeth rattling growls. 

Glancing over Sherlock quickly, John could not see any critical injuries under his clothes, but he’d eat his hat if several bones did not have fractures. The pain and the shock of the fall must have brought the Siren’s instincts to the surface. John placed a gentle hand on Sherlock’s cheek, wary of teeth that could snap at any moment, and turned Sherlock’s head to meet his eyes. A flash of recognition had John sighing in relief. Sherlock wasn’t so far gone, then. 

“There you are,” John breathed, waiting as the growling quieted and stopped. “I know it hurts, but you’ve got him. You’re a bloody idiot, but you’ve got him.”

John recognized the exact moment clarity returned to Sherlock’s eyes, which widened briefly before closing in shame and pain. 

“Oi, geroff!” the suspect grunted, struggling anew. Even distracted, Sherlock’s strength didn’t let the man move an inch. “Bugger, my wrist,” he moaned, belatedly noticing the gruesome break.

“Shut up,” John snapped, slipping the pistol into the pocket of his trousers.

The sound of pounding hooves preceded the arrival of Detective Inspector Lestrade and his team with the Black Maria. Dismounting from their horses, they came barreling around the corner moments later, prompt as usual. The DI stumbled a bit when he saw the heap of men on the ground, before rushing forward.

Sherlock’s face was carefully blank, but he let John pull his clawed fingers away from the shaking suspect. Let John pull him back as Lestrade and his men hauled the suspect to his feet.

“Thank God,” the suspect gasped, squirming to get the coppers between him and Sherlock. “Just get that freak away from me.”

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow down at Sherlock, bemused.

“Careful of his wrist,” John advised gruffly. “And he’s likely got a concussion.”

“Take him to the hospital,” Lestrade agreed, watching his men depart before turning to eye Sherlock and John, still on the ground. “Weren’t you a little harsh with ‘im?”

During their over four year acquaintance, Lestrade had seen enough of Sherlock’s oddities that John wondered how the DI hadn’t figured out Sherlock’s secret. Whether the man was simply oblivious or, as Sherlock liked to put it, he saw only what he wanted to see, John did not know.

“He did kill three people,” Sherlock muttered.

“True enough,” Lestrade agreed readily. “You two alright?” His eyes flicked over the pair, taking in their bruises and tattered clothes.

John briefly looked away from Sherlock to reassure Lestrade. “I’m fine.” He brushed his hands along Sherlock’s body and noted when the man flinched. “Sherlock’s…”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s, suddenly fierce. John sighed.

“Sherlock’s fine, as well. Nothing some rest won’t cure.” John turned to smile tightly at Lestrade. “If you could get us a cab?”

“I can take you in the back of the Maria – ”

“Transported like a criminal? No thank you,” Sherlock declined haughtily.

John shrugged in apology as Lestrade huffed and left to flag down a cabby. Once he was out of sight, Sherlock hissed and worked his jaw, releasing tension and flashing his sharp teeth. He allowed John to prop him up against the alley wall, where he leant gingerly. 

“One of these days Lestrade it going to see something that he can’t explain away,” John muttered, thinking of what the DI would have seen had he arrived only a minute earlier.

“He knows,” Sherlock rumbled.

John jolted. “Pardon?”

An impatient sigh. “He doesn’t know precisely _what_ I am, but he knows that I’m not quite _right_. He may be an idiot but he’s not completely unobservant. He simply looks the other way because I am a useful tool for him. With my help, he puts away more criminals, and that’s all that matters to him.”

If John weren’t so shocked, he would comment on what high praise Sherlock had given Lestrade by calling him ‘not completely unobservant’. If he weren’t so horrified, he might also remark on how Sherlock was certainly more than a ‘tool’ to Lestrade. Unfortunately, all John could do was gape like a fish for several moments. 

“We need to be more careful – ” he finally spluttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pain reducing his patience to nil. “He doesn’t _know_ , he only _suspects_. And he’s not going to tell anyone.”

“How can you possibly – ” 

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Must we discuss this at this very moment?” 

John stopped and pursed his lips, taking in the tension emanating from Sherlock’s frame. The man was clearly in pain, favouring his right ankle especially. With effort, John reigned in the impulse to lecture, the remnants of adrenaline making him snappish, he knew. 

“Do _not_ do that to me again,” he said gruffly, knowing Sherlock hated to be ordered and yet not able to restrain himself. Sherlock stayed stonily silent as John pulled off his shoe and tugged down his sock, revealing a red and swollen ankle. Gently, John manipulated the foot and lightly prodded the injured area, stopping when Sherlock hissed. “Not broken, I don’t think. A bad sprain. We’ll keep an eye on the swelling, put it on ice. You’ll do no more running for few days at least.”

Pouting, Sherlock looked away. “Put my shoe back on, my foot’s cold.”

“If I put it back on, it’ll constrict the swelling and your ankle will hurt more,” John countered. Instead, the doctor pulled Sherlock’s foot into his lap and gently wrapped it in his hands, sharing his body heat.

They sat like that for a moment, until Sherlock cast John a speculative glance. He shifted forward a bit, pressing his socked foot against John’s crotch and nudging the semi-hardness with his arch. He huffed out a breath and smirked, but John met his gaze evenly, refusing to blush. It was a perfectly natural reaction to adrenaline and to finding out that one’s idiotic lover was not dead as one had thought. 

At the sounds of wheels and a horse’s trotting, John helped Sherlock up, still holding Sherlock’s sock and shoe in one hand and wrapping the taller man’s arm around his shoulders.

“Your carriage, Highness,” Lestrade drawled when he returned. “I’ll be coming ‘round for statements tomorrow morning.”

“Looking forward to it,” Sherlock ground out, leaning on John as he limped towards the cabby.

For a moment, Lestrade watched with what John thought was a tad too much amusement and a mite too little concern. Then he opened the cabby door and offered his shoulder for balance as Sherlock, long-limbed and awkward, tumbled gracelessly into the wagon. 

“The fare’s paid,” he told them after John had seated himself. “Thanks for your help, lads.” He slammed the door shut and backed away, his face falling back as the cab lurched into motion.

Instantly, Sherlock flinched and groaned, curling forward and pressing his palms over his ears. Quickly, John pulled the blinds, blocking the sunlight and eliminating the possibility of any curious eyes, and pulled Sherlock to his side. After a lapse like this, the Siren’s senses were always hyperaware: light seared his eyes like lightning, any sound battered his ears like war-drums, the most inoffensive scents brought tears to his eyes, and his skin crawled with a painful sensitivity. Sherlock had rarely had this problem back on the rocks, where the only sensory input was the dull crash of waves, the hissing whispers of wind, and the briny smell of the sea. 

If there was anything of London that Sherlock resented, it was its ability to overwhelm him with its very essence. Most times, the rush and tumult of the city was interesting, invigorating, but when his senses blew wide, collecting and analyzing every piece of input that hit him, there was little he could do but grit his teeth and wait for the storm to pass. 

Well, perhaps that wasn’t his only option.

With warm hands, John tucked Sherlock’s head under his chin, drowning out the odours of dust, and sewage, and horse, and cobblestone, and leather and – submerging it all under John’s familiar scent. With a touch firm enough not to tease, solid enough not to send Sherlock’s nerves screaming with irritation, he wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pressed his other hand over Sherlock’s right ear. With his left ear muffled against John’s shoulder, Sherlock focused on the sound of John’s heartbeat, ninety-four beats per minute, and on the rush of his lungs as air was dragged slowly in and out. The vibrations of the cab rattled Sherlock’s skull, but he blocked it out, counted and listened as John’s heartbeat gradually slowed to seventy-two beats per minute.

He was at six-hundred thirty-seven when John squeezed him. 

“We’re home.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, unable to recall when he had closed them. Already he felt more calmed, his brain more able to sort and filter. With conscious effort, Sherlock resisted the urge to pull away and snap as embarrassment and shame welled within him. While reasserting his control and independence would be personally satisfying, he knew from experience that it would only hurt John. Then John would get that pinched look on his face, the one he always got when he was pretending to be fine, and Sherlock would feel bad all over again. Best just to accept this moment of vulnerability and move forward.

“Come on, let’s get in, I’m knackered,” John murmured, climbing out of the cab first. Rather than go straight for their front door, he hesitated. 

A fond smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but I’ve a broken ankle,” he complained, dressing himself with his most put-upon expression.

Gratefully, John quickly held out an arm to assist Sherlock onto the pavement, muttering, “It’s just a sprain, you whiny prat.” 

“A sprain gained in service for my country.”

A rather insulting snort burst from John’s nose. “You gained that sprain in an act of idiocy.”

“He would have climbed down the wall and escaped if I hadn’t jumped! And I got him, didn’t I?”

Unlocking the door to 221 b Baker Street, the two men hobbled in. “After nearly giving me a heart-attack, yes!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock hushed him harshly, but it was too late. 

“Oh, what’s that racket?” Mrs. Hudson fussed, emerging from her flat. “And at this hour!”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John huffed. “Holmes just had a bit of a tumble.”

Sherlock made an insulted sound and leaned more heavily on John. “I don’t know how you can abide housing such a horrible man, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve just caught a serial killer and Dr. Watson insists on insulting me.”

“If you would be so kind as to bring up a bucket of ice and a towel, Mrs. Hudson,” John said loudly over him, “it would be much appreciated.”

Doing a poor job of hiding her smile with her hand, Mrs. Hudson nodded and disappeared back into her flat. 

Grunting and swearing, the two men made their slow way up the stairs to their flat, where John instantly steered Sherlock towards his bedroom. 

“It’s too far,” Sherlock whined, keeping his foot elevated and letting John practically carry him. “Just leave me on the couch.”

“I’m not putting you on the couch,” John huffed, “just to move you to the bed later.”

Sherlock sagged even more.

“For God’s sake,” John gasped, and with a groan, threw Sherlock over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Sherlock could not contain his yelp. “Bloody heavy git.”

Sherlock was laughing when John finally dumped him on the bed, then hissed when his foot made contact with the mattress.

“Sorry.” John grabbed a couple pillows to elevate Sherlock’s foot before running his hands over Sherlock’s body, checking systematically for injuries. “Anything else hurt?”

Sherlock arched his back slightly as John’s hands grazed his hips, and smirked when John tsked at him. “My left elbow. And both knees.” 

John checked each site carefully and was pressing a kiss to the bruise on Sherlock’s elbow when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open bedroom door. John jerked upright sheepishly, but Mrs. Hudson had her eyes tactfully averted, her arms full of a bucket of ice, a few cloths and a bowl of warm water. John quickly relieved her of her burden and thanked her effusively.

“Of course, dear. You just patch him up like you always do. And you,” she glared sternly at Sherlock, “be more careful.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” they both replied dutifully.

With a satisfied nod, she turned to leave. “I’ll bring up dinner in two hours, boys,” she warned them over her shoulder. 

John was blushing as he placed the supplies on the floor, and Sherlock tugged him in for a passionate kiss, suddenly giddy with affection. John moaned and pressed Sherlock into the bed for several moments before pulling away. Sherlock made a plaintive sound, but John just pecked his lips before pulling back again. “I need to treat your ankle first.” He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and placed it in the bottom drawer of the bedside table.

“It’ll heal on its own,” Sherlock protested, craving the heat of John’s body. He was in the sweet spot just below over-sensitivity, when each touch sent bursts of pleasure into his brain. 

“You don’t heal as quickly as you used to,” John argued, wrapping some ice in one of the cloths and placing it against the swelling in Sherlock’s angle. “Just let me wrap it.” He prepared another cloth with ice. “Here, for your elbow.”

“Take off my trousers first,” Sherlock ordered, wiggling his hips as he pressed the ice to his elbow. “It’ll be more of a hassle once you’ve doubled the size of my ankle with bandages.”

John rolled his eyes but complied, his breath speeding up as Sherlock moaned at each brush of John’s fingertips. He removed Sherlock’s drawers for good measure, but ignored Sherlock’s swelling prick for the moment. 

John was all calm professionalism as he wrapped Sherlock’s sore ankle, and Sherlock watched those competent doctor hands, the very things that had first captivated the Siren years ago. When he’d still had his wings, circling the _Defiance_ from above, he’d seen those hands and had wanted the human instantly. Now there were bloody scratches marring the knuckles and fingers, and when John finished, Sherlock beckoned to him. “Come here. And pass me the bowl of water and a cloth.”

It was deeply satisfying to wash John’s small wounds, to manipulate John’s deft fingers and feel the bones beneath his scarred, calloused, beautiful skin. The gold band around his finger, outwardly identical to his first wedding ring, sent pulses of possessive joy into Sherlock’s stomach. Carefully, worried that John’s finger might swell painfully against the metal, Sherlock twisted the ring off and placed it on the bedside table, then set to cleaning the thin strip of pale skin that never saw the sun. Sherlock dabbed his skin dry with the cloth before pressing a kiss to each of his palms, glancing up when he felt a shiver pass through John’s frame. 

John’s pupils were blown wide with arousal, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted. He was lust and welcome personified, and this time he did not resist when Sherlock pulled John on top of him. 

There was no more holding back, and Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed as John plunged into the kiss, lips and tongue desperate against his. John’s fingers scrabbled to undo the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt as he began pressing kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, under his ear and down his throat. With each buss, Sherlock’s need increased, the warmth in his pelvis growing to a blaze. He gripped John’s hips and pulled him down, aching with the feel of John’s arousal against his, separated by the rough fabric of his trousers against Sherlock’s bare skin. When he arched his back, the dull throb of his ankle flared and he grimaced, frustrated.

John pressed him more firmly into the bed and brought his lips to Sherlock’s ear. “Perhaps,” he breathed, “you will allow me to lead, this time.” His fingertips stroked down Sherlock’s bare chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “You must stay very still.” Thumbs flicked over both of Sherlock’s nipples in quick succession, causing Sherlock to inhale sharply, but otherwise stay immobile. “Very good.”

John’s hips began a slow, maddening grinding against his and Sherlock reached for John’s collar.

“Ah,” John chided, grabbing Sherlock’s wrists and pressing them into the bed.

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock gasped. “Take off your clothes.”

Chuckling with delight, John sat up, his bum against Sherlock’s thighs, and leisurely removed the clothes on his upper body. Sherlock watched avidly as skin and toned muscle were exposed for his pleasure, fingers aching to touch. John pressed a hand against his own chest and slowly dragged his fingertips down his torso, teasing himself and Sherlock both.

He groaned and the sound sent shivers through Sherlock’s body. “You wish this was your hand, don’t you?” John murmured, his fingers tucked just under the edge of his trousers. “I can see how desperately your eyes trail my fingers.”

Unable to stand any more, Sherlock tipped his head back. “John, if you do not get on with it, I will dump you onto the ground and take you there, ankle be damned.”

John laughed breathlessly and undid his trousers and pants before pushing them down, too impatient to take them off completely. When he lowered himself to press full body against Sherlock, it was ecstasy, and Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around the human, breathing harshly into his neck. John’s spine began an undulating motion that wrung a desperate noise from Sherlock’s throat, his lower back aching with the need to thrust. His shirt sleeves were still bunched at his elbows, the fabric driving him mad. 

“John,” he gasped. “John, please, I need this off. Off.”

Helping Sherlock sit up slightly, his abdominals crunching with effort, they quickly divested Sherlock of his shirt and threw it to the floor. Sherlock slumped back to the bed while John reached into the bedside table drawer, and Sherlock pressed his hands against the straining muscles of John’s torso, feeling them shift under his skin as John retrieved the jar of petroleum jelly. When John sat back up, Sherlock snatched the jar and dipped his fingers into the lubricant. He watched John’s face as he smeared the substance high up on John’s inner thighs, then higher still until he could massage just behind his testicles. John’s eyes fluttered with pleasure and he groaned, bending over and catching himself with his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head.

“Like this,” Sherlock murmured, trailing his greasy fingers up over John’s sack before fisting his erection, giving it one long pull. John’s hips stuttered forward when Sherlock’s hand pulled away, and Sherlock urged him to lower his hips until they were pressed together again. They rearranged their legs until Sherlock’s erection was pressed between John’s tightly closed thighs.

“Yes,” John sighed, squirming as Sherlock’s cockhead nudged his perineum. 

Beyond speech, Sherlock groaned at the slick heat, the shuddering compression of John’s muscles around him. Unwilling to jostle his ankle, Sherlock lay as still as possible, his head tilted back as John mouthed at his neck and thrust against his belly, movements growing quicker as their pleasure mounted. It was gorgeous, indescribable, and Sherlock groped John’s arse to press him closer, to make him thrust faster.

The thrill of John’s teeth grazing a tendon in his neck made Sherlock’s eyes roll back, his mouth fall open with a shuddering inhale. John’s hips jerked and Sherlock choked, suddenly very close to his peak.

“Sherlock,” John gasped against his skin. “Bite me. When you come, bite me.”

With John’s weight pressing him into the mattress, Sherlock could do little more than shudder and clutch at John’s back as the pleasure in his pelvis bloomed, his muscles tightening and his hips twitching fitfully against his human. John tilted his head back with a moan and clenched his thighs together as Sherlock’s teeth sank into his trapezius, muffling Sherlock’s cry. 

With a hand on his arse and another buried in his hair, Sherlock urged John to keep moving, lapping at the drops of blood that had welled up from the shallow punctures. 

“Oh, God, Sherlock, fuck,” John whined, pitch rising with pleasure.

Sherlock tugged his hair and squeezed him possessively. “Yes, that’s it,” he growled against John’s throat, finding his voice. “Give it to me, John, I want it.”

John’s desperate sound cut off suddenly as he tensed in Sherlock’s arms, his hip bones pressing with bruising force into Sherlock’s as his orgasm unspooled, the evidence of his pleasure streaking like ribbons between them. 

At last John slumped against Sherlock, and for several long moments they lay catching their breath, Sherlock mouthing at the teeth marks that had already stopped bleeding. They were both damp with sweat, but Sherlock wrapped his arms around John anyway, sighing when John began pressing soft kisses to his neck. 

It wasn’t long before various discomforts forced them apart again. The ice pack had fallen from Sherlock’s ankle and was steadily melting at the foot of the bed, their excretions were drying stickily between them, and John’s shoulder and neck were sore. John snagged one of Mrs. Hudson’s convenient towels to wipe them mostly clean, then prepared another ice pack as Sherlock lay back and watched, admiring the sight of his bite mark as John moved. 

“Despite what you might think,” John said as he checked Sherlock’s ankle, “you can’t actually fly anymore, so please do not make a habit of jumping off of buildings.”

Sherlock scoffed and held open his arms expectantly. “If you’re quite done.”

“I should check –” John tried turning his head to look at his own shoulder.

“It’s fine. I barely broke the skin.”

“Alright, just let me –”

“Mrs. Hudson is giving us two hours, and I believe I’d like to rest until then,” Sherlock declared haughtily, his arms still hovering in the air. “That is one of the treatments for a sprained ankle, isn’t it? Rest?”

“So demanding,” John complained, but settled into his arms readily, shifting until they lay side by side on the bed with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m used to getting my way.” Sherlock reached out to retrieve John’s ring, his fingertip automatically feeling for the inscription on the inside.

“I spoil you,” John said lightly, always discomfited by the thought of all that Sherlock had lost, his Song especially. 

“You spoil me because you love me.”

Sherlock’s Song had been his life. It used to be his most powerful weapon, his tool for survival, everything he knew. He’d lost it when John had come into his life.

“That’s very true.” 

Perhaps ‘lost’ was not the right term. He had not lost his Song, the meaning of his life, not really. Rather, it had been replaced.

John allowed Sherlock to take his left hand, spreading his fingers obligingly when he saw that Sherlock held his ring. Turning the band so it glinted in the early evening light, Sherlock read the inscription on the inside.

“My Song.”

Then he twisted the ring back into place on John’s finger, impressing the words against the human’s skin. 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irene’s dominatrix career and her “Adler Horse” are based on the Wikipedia page about Theresa Berkley, a real dominatrix from the 19th century. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you’ve enjoyed this adventure as much as I have and, as always, comments and kudos are loved and appreciated.


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